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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182603">all in doubt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd'>brookethenerd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Holidays</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:13:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,728</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve tells his parents he’s bringing a girl home for the holidays and bribes the reader to play his girlfriend. It’s two weeks in Hawkins. What could go wrong?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>223</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>DECEMBER 21</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Chat: The Losers of Loft 522</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:18 - Steve the Hair:</em>
  </b>
  <em> MAYDAY</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:18 - Steve the Hair:</em>
  </b>
  <em> EMERGENCY</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:19 - Steve the Hair:</em>
  </b>
  <em> SOS</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:20 - Robin Hood:</em>
  </b>
  <em> chill out for a second</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:20 - Robin Hood: </em>
  </b>
  <em>what level are we talking</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:21 - Steve the Hair:</em>
  </b>
  <em> level 10 fuck up</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:22 - You:</em>
  </b>
  <em> uh oh</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:22 - You:</em>
  </b>
  <em> loft?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:23 - Robin Hood:</em>
  </b>
  <em> already on my way</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>4:31 - You:</em>
  </b>
  <em> if you’re screwing with us, Harrington, you’re on dish duty for a month</em>
</p>
<p>You reach the apartment complex just as Robin does, catching the elevator door before it closes with her inside. At your arrival, she grins and leans forward to punch the button for the fifth floor.</p>
<p>“What do we think he did now?” Robin asks. She’s clearly come from her Ceramics class, and is still covered in chalky clay, a thin streak of white arcing over her left brow where she wiped absentmindedly. Instinctively, you lick your thumb and stretch a hand out to her head, wiping it at. She recoils, swatting your hand away.</p>
<p>“Thanks, <em>mom</em>,” she says. You laugh, leaning back against the metal of the elevator’s walls.</p>
<p>“Considering his last SOS turned out to be a hairspray shortage, it could be anything.”</p>
<p>Robin lets out a sigh as the elevator dings and openes to the fifth floor, heading into the hallway. You trail beside her, making your way down the carpeted hall to your apartment door. A small chalkboard hanging below the peephole announces its residents as Steve, Robin, and you.</p>
<p>“Winter break can’t come soon enough,” she huffs, digging her key out of her pocket and unlocking the door. You smirk, pushing into the apartment after her.</p>
<p>“One more day,” you remind her.</p>
<p>In the small living room, its walls adorned with various tapestries - all mismatched, as they were individually chosen by three different people - and fairy lights that Steve pretended to dislike but subtly added strands to over time. Steve paces between the TV and the coffee table, arms folded across his chest, features twisted.</p>
<p>You and Robin stop on the other side of the couch, exchanging a look, and Steve stops, turning to face you.</p>
<p>“I <em>may</em> have fucked up,” he says.</p>
<p>“<em>May</em> have?” You ask.</p>
<p>“Elaborate,” says Robin. Steve crinkles his nose but nods, dropping down onto the wooden coffee table. You climb over the couch and sit against one of the armrests, Robin going around to sit on the other side.</p>
<p>“So,” Steve says, cheeks pink, “remember how I said my parents are making me come home for Christmas?”</p>
<p>“You only bitched about it for three weeks,” Robin mutters. You snake out a sneakered-foot to jab her lightly in the thigh, and she shrugs, tossing you an innocent look. “He <em>did</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Steve leans back, fidgeting more than usual. “And remember how my family is coming into town? Uncles and aunts and cousins and all that?”</p>
<p>“Let’s get to the SOS,” you say.</p>
<p>Steve huffs, avoiding both your gazes.</p>
<p>“I…may have said…that I was bringing home a girl.”</p>
<p>Robin leans forward, mouth falling open. She looks to you, and though it’s absolutely inappropriate, you start to laugh.</p>
<p>“<em>You did not</em>,” you say, choking on giggles. Steve lets out a sharp exhale and buries his face in his hands. When he lifts his head, he rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head, an incredulous look on his face.</p>
<p>“I don’t even know how it happened,” he says. “My dad was just…being a <em>dick</em> about my cousins coming and bringing their <em>girlfriends</em> and <em>fiances</em> and <em>wives</em>, and he kept going on about how I’m fucking everything up, as per usual, and I just…” He sighs. “Said it. And he shut right up.”</p>
<p>“And does your imaginary girlfriend know she’s being brought home for the holidays?” Robin asks, clearly trying as hard as you not to laugh.</p>
<p>It’s not kind to laugh, but it’s <em>hilarious</em>; a situation only Steve Harrington could get tangled up into.</p>
<p>“Real helpful, Robin,” Steve says, “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Hey, man, you’re the one who told his parents he has a serious girlfriend,” Robin says, throwing up her hands in surrender. “This is why I’m <em>not</em> going back to Hawkins. I’ll take my holidays without the family drama.”</p>
<p>“Sure you don’t want to be my girlfriend?” He asks. At Robin’s cocked brow, he rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”</p>
<p>“Hard pass on that, dingus,” she says, leaning forward to pat his cheek affectionately. “Besides. Your parents know me. They’d never believe it.”</p>
<p>Steve grumbles in agreement, leaning back on his hands and letting out yet another dramatic sigh. He does look completely pitiful, and despite your teasing, you’ve been friends and roommates with Steve Harrington long enough to know there’s a reason he avoids making the two-hour drive home; there’s a reason he wears a suit of armor so thick, one borne out of years of fighting alone against a cold, cruel father and a passive, ignorant mother.</p>
<p>“<em>Jesus</em>,” he huffs, “I’m an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Normally, I’d agree,” Robin says, “but when it comes to family, I get it.”</p>
<p>“I still vote you tell them to fuck off,” you say, turning up your chin. “They’re douchebags, every one of them, and they don’t deserve you.”</p>
<p>Steve flashes you a quick, grateful smile, but it goes as quickly as it came.</p>
<p>“How am I supposed to find someone who doesn’t already have plans for the break, and somehow convince them to play home with my shitty family for two weeks?” Steve asks. He leans forward again, hair falling over his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m fucked.”</p>
<p>Robin straightens suddenly, head snapping your way, a mischievous look in her eye. That look never leads anywhere good, and you’re seconds away from shutting her up without even knowing what she’s going to say.</p>
<p>“I know someone who doesn’t have plans,” Robin says. Your stomach twists, and you shake your head, protest building. “And they already know you well enough to pull it off.”</p>
<p>Steve’s brows knit together. You resist the urge to throttle Robin, to cut off the sentence before it starts.</p>
<p>“What? <em>Who</em>?”</p>
<p>Robin’s lips curl up in an evil grin. “Y/N.”</p>
<p>Steve’s eyes widen, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Shit. Robin’s right. You’re just staying here, right?”</p>
<p>You frown, and say, “I was planning on staying the hell <em>away</em> from family.”</p>
<p>“It’s not your family,” Steve says. “It’s mine.”</p>
<p>“Not a chance.”</p>
<p>Steve frowns and pushes forward, kneeling between the coffee table and you, palms pressed together.</p>
<p>“Please, please, please, please, please-”</p>
<p>“No fucking way, Steve!”</p>
<p>“Come on!”</p>
<p>“No!”</p>
<p>“It’s just two weeks!”</p>
<p>“Two weeks pretending to be your….” You shake the thought off, lip curling in disgust. Steve Harrington, the boy who can’t be bothered to leave his shoes at the front door like everyone else, who eats all the popcorn each time you make it, who hogs the couch, who tells stupid jokes and says stupid things. Two weeks, pretending to be dating <em>that</em>. <em>Him</em>.</p>
<p>He may be one of your best friends, but nothing more. He’s handsome, and sweet, and funny, but he’s also….<em>Steve</em>.</p>
<p>“No. Just….no.”</p>
<p>“Please?” Steve asks, brows arching, his expression pleading. “I’ll give you anything. What do you want? My room? My car? My….” He frowns. “I mean, I don’t really have anything else, and I saved up for that switch for six months, so you’re not getting it-” he stops, realizing he’s rambling. “Please?”</p>
<p>You lean back, frowning, thinking. There are, of course, things you want. You want Steve to do the goddamn dishes and vacuum once in a while and stop waltzing around the apartment half-naked like he’s the only one who lives there. Maybe, just maybe, you can survive two weeks trapped with Steve Harrington in his hometown if you get something out of it.</p>
<p>“I’ve got a few ideas,” you say, lips quirking up in a grin. “You might want to write some of this down.”</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 22</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>6:38 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve’s trunk is, thankfully, large enough to fit both your suitcases, though not without a little shoving and pushing. You’re on the road by six, and with Hawkins less than 150 miles away, the drive will take little more than two hours. Not near long enough to get annoyed in a car with Steve Harrington, though he certainly pushes it.</p>
<p>“<em>So get your shadow outta my sunshine, Outta my blue skies, Outta my good times</em>,” Steve belts out the Kesha song he’s queued, off-key and loud, and you have to suppress your giggles. You reach out, turning down the music and cocking a brow at Steve.</p>
<p>“Your douchebag cousins know you’re a secret Kesha stan?”</p>
<p>He makes a face akin to a toddler sticking out their tongue and turns the music up one notch.</p>
<p>“If they’re not listening to the new album, that’s their problem,” he says. You snort, folding your arms across your chest.</p>
<p>“So…should we, like, go over…I don’t know, rules? Boundaries? For when we’re…” You scrunch your nose. “You know.”</p>
<p>“Fake lovers?” He asks, tossing you a glance and waggling his brows. You roll your eyes.</p>
<p>“Say that again, and I’ll open this door and roll out.”</p>
<p>“Bet.”</p>
<p>“God, being roommates with a frat boy is <em>actually</em> killing my brain cells.”</p>
<p>Steve pouts, and protests, “I am <em>not</em> a frat boy.”</p>
<p>You incline your head, frowning. “You are <em>spiritually</em>.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you should just open the door and roll out.”</p>
<p>You swat him, and he protests. “<em>Okay, okay</em>. Jesus. Fine. Rules. Go.”</p>
<p>“Nuh-uh. That’s all you, buddy.”</p>
<p>He frowns, but relents. He doesn’t turn to look at you, overtly focused on the road ahead, but the tips of his ears turn pink.</p>
<p>“Okay, I guess, with like, the <em>kissing</em> stuff-”</p>
<p>“<em>Kissing</em> <em>stuff</em>?”</p>
<p>“You didn’t actually think you’d get through two weeks without kissing me, did you?” He asks.</p>
<p>Heat creeps up your cheeks.</p>
<p>“I guess I…hadn’t thought about it. You kind of hit me with this last minute, man.”</p>
<p>“And I’m <em>eternally</em> grateful,” he says, “But, I mean, I wouldn’t bring home some girl I’ve only <em>held hands</em> with. We have to be…” He tilts his head, shifting his weight, as uncomfortable as you are.</p>
<p>Maybe you didn’t think this through; opening the door and hopping out is starting to gain appeal.</p>
<p>“<em>Serious</em>.”</p>
<p>You swallow the lump in your throat and will your racing heart to calm the ever-loving fuck down; it’s just two weeks and a few fake kisses with a friend. No big deal. You can do that.</p>
<p>Right?</p>
<p>“G-Rated only. I’m talking, a peck, and no more,” you say. Steve nods, and you’re both pointedly not looking at each other and your equally red cheeks.</p>
<p>“No shit,” Steve says, voice only a little uneven. “Like they do for plays, and stuff. A play kiss.”</p>
<p>“That’s a <em>stage kiss</em>, Harrington.”</p>
<p>“That one.” He rolls his shoulders, shifting his grip on the wheel. “Stage kiss. Only when we have to.”</p>
<p>“Only when we have to.”</p>
<p>“And as for sleeping, I can make a pallet on the floor out of some blankets-”</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” you snap, surprising yourself with the intensity and swiftness of the words. “I think we can share a bed for two weeks without killing each other or jumping each other’s bones.”</p>
<p>He flashes a lopsided grin your way, and says, “Think you can keep your hands off me?”</p>
<p>“Off your throat?” You ask. “Probably not. As for the rest? Won’t be a problem.”</p>
<p>Having fully regained his confidence, Steve’s grin widens.</p>
<p>“Wanna bet?”</p>
<p>“Wanna lose?”</p>
<p>“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice velvety, a brow arched, “I don’t lose.”</p>
<p>You snort a laugh. “It’s never too late for your first.”</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 22</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>8:59 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Hawkins, Indiana is still a small town, despite Indiana’s exponential growth around it. It has an old feel to it, with original buildings still standing, maintained rather than replaced. Steve drives through Main Street, sidewalk bustling with people doing holiday shopping and bundled up against the cold and snow, lights strung along all the lamp posts and wound around trees, washing the street in pale yellow and white light.</p>
<p>It’s beautiful, and quaint, like a place out of time. From where you’re sitting, you can’t imagine not wanting to come to a place like this. But, as you know, there is always something lurking beneath the surface, and most of the time, it isn’t good.</p>
<p>Steve’s easy demeanor sloughs off the closer he gets to his house, a taut bowstring by the time he turns into his neighborhood and onto his street. The homes are large and well kept, likely built in the ’60s or ’70s.</p>
<p>Steve pulls into the drive of a large two-story house, painted pale green, with a large red front door. He parks behind the other two cars in the large driveway but doesn’t move for a long moment, staring up at the house.</p>
<p>“Hey,” you say softly, the kidding of earlier gone, “it’s just two weeks. And if you want to use me as an excuse, just say I’m tired, and we’ll avoid them for as much of these two weeks as we can.”</p>
<p>He meets your gaze, lips curling up.</p>
<p>“So far,” he says, “you’re killing this fake girlfriend thing.”</p>
<p>You grin and undo your seatbelt, popping open the door and climbing out of the car, bending down to look at him.</p>
<p>“Come on,” you say. “I can’t wait to see what dorky shit you have in your bedroom.”</p>
<p>“I take it back,” he retorts, climbing out of the car and shutting the door, lips quirked upwards. “You’re fired.”</p>
<p>“Too late,” you say, “those baby pictures are mine.”</p>
<p>Steve’s reply comes in the form of a finger as he goes to the trunk and pops it open, tugging out the suitcases. He doesn’t even try to hand you yours, and when you try to grab for it, he frowns and furrows his brows, like he’s surprised. <em>Oh</em>.</p>
<p>That whole <em>fake</em> thing. This, the chivalry, the inevitable - you don’t even want to think about it - kisses, the shared room, the showing you off the family members, is all part of the ruse. The one to get Steve through the holidays. But it’s not real.</p>
<p>Steve heads up the drive, derailing your train of thought, and you follow him to the door. He doesn’t bother knocking, simply turning the knock and opening the door, lugging the suitcases into a front room opening to a living room past a set of stairs leading to a lofted hallway above.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Steve calls, completely unenthusiastic. “I’m here!”</p>
<p>You reach forward and touch his arm without thinking, meaning to somehow shelter him from the parents you’ve only heard stories of - a father who under appreciates and dismisses him and a mother who lets it happen. He snaps his head toward you, brows lifting in surprise, but his expression quickly evens and he gives you a tiny smile; a smile you haven’t seen before.</p>
<p>A woman comes through a doorway to the right of the stairs, short and thin with hair the same color as Steve’s falling to her shoulders. She smiles, face lighting up, and she rushes Steve, wrapping her arms around him. He stiffens for a beat, but reluctantly hugs her back, sinking into her embrace after another moment. When she pulls back, she holds onto his shoulders, smiling at him sadly.</p>
<p>“It’s been too long.”</p>
<p>Steve’s expression twists, and he nods. “I know. I’m sorry, mom.”</p>
<p>She smiles again, and shakes the sadness out of it, turning her attention to you.</p>
<p>“You must be the girlfriend we’ve heard so little about! We’re so glad you could join us! The rest  of the family will be here tomorrow, so you can settle in before the masses descend.” She laughs, a very mom laugh, overly polite but well-intentioned. “I’m Annabelle Harrington.” She holds out a hand, and you take it, shaking.</p>
<p>“Y/N,” you say. “I’ve heard-” You flick a glance at Steve. “Such amazing things. It’s <em>incredible</em> to finally meet you.” You’re laying it on thick, but she soaks it up, beaming brightly. She looks over her shoulder, smile lingering on her lips.</p>
<p>“Harry! Steve’s here!”</p>
<p>You meet Steve’s gaze, cocking a brow and mouthing <em>Harry Harrington?</em> He stifles a laugh behind a hand, and nods.<em> I know</em> he mouths.  </p>
<p>A man with salt and pepper hair and a deep scowl enter the room a beat later. He stops beside his wife, and assesses you and Steve.</p>
<p>“Steven,” he says. He looks at you. “I see that girlfriend of yours actually exists. Here we thought you were lying.”</p>
<p>Steve stiffens. “<em>Jesus</em>, dad.”</p>
<p>“Harry,” Annabelle scolds, sending you an apologetic look. “He’s just kidding with you.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Steve says coolly, and Annabelle’s smile wavers.</p>
<p>“It was a long drive,” you say, cutting through the thick tension in the room, looking at Steve. “Steve, want to show me your room?”</p>
<p>His expression is thankful when he meets your gaze. He nods, and grabs the luggage, heading for the stairs without another word. Neither of his parents call out your blatant lie - a two-hour drive is hardly something to be exhausted over at 9 PM - to your relief; if his father says one more snappy remark in that cold tone, you’re going to smack him.</p>
<p>“Nice to meet you,” you call, following Steve to the stairs. You’re both up into the hallway in seconds, leaving his parents on the first floor.</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: The Loser of Loft 522</b>
</p>
<p><b>8:14 - Robin Hood: </b>you guys make it without killing each other?</p>
<p><b>7: 18 - You: </b>nope</p>
<p><b>7:18 - You: </b>Steve is currently in a ditch</p>
<p><b>7:19 - Steve the Hair:</b> so cold</p>
<p><b>7:19 - Steve the Hair: </b>getting…. colder….</p>
<p><b>7:20 - Robin Hood:</b> dingus</p>
<p><b>7:20 - You: </b>not as cold as Harry Harrington</p>
<p><b>7:20 - You: </b>which you should have prepared me for</p>
<p><b>7:20 - You: </b>you can’t just drop HARRY HARRINGTON on a person and expect them not to lose their shit right there in the foyer</p>
<p><b>7:21 - Robin Hood: </b>ooo foyer. learning French, are <em>oui</em>?</p>
<p><b>7:22 - Steve the Hair: </b>i thought foyer was latin??</p>
<p><b>7:22 - Steve the Hair: </b>but isn’t everything latin. If you think about it.</p>
<p><b>7:23 - Robin Hood: </b>christ, y/n, have you gotten him high already?</p>
<p><b>7:24 - Steve the Hair: </b>unfortunately sober and unfortunately in the lion’s den</p>
<p><b>7:25 - You: </b>unfortunately, still a drama queen</p>
<p><b>7:26 - Robin Hood: </b>i give it two days before you lose it and choke each other</p>
<p><b>7:26 - Robin Hood: </b>you decide how to take that, crazy kids</p>
<p><b>7:26 - Robin Hood: </b>and remember: no glove, no love ;)</p>
<p><b>7:27 - You: </b>in his dreams</p>
<p><b>7:27 - Steve the Hair: </b>you mean nightmares</p>
<p>“I can still make you sleep on the floor, Harrington,” you say, giving Steve a pointed look over your suitcase as you rifle through it for pajamas. Steve, piling a fresh tee on top of his folded sweats, flicks a glance at the carpet, brow twitching.</p>
<p>“No sweat. Some good carpet.”</p>
<p>You let out a huff, and Steve grins, ducking into his bathroom to change. You change into your pajamas quickly, pushing your suitcase against the wall and out of the way.</p>
<p>Steve’s room is not, unfortunately, all that embarrassing, sparsely decorated, though his wallpaper is <em>horrendous</em>. It’s an old house, with old fixtures, but it has a homey feel about it.</p>
<p>Steve exits the bathroom, raking a hand through his hair and chucking his worn clothes into a hamper by the closet door. He crosses the room to the bed, pulling back the covers, and it only really hits you <em>then</em> that you’re sleeping together.</p>
<p>Not <em>together</em> together. But…together.</p>
<p>Once again, that little voice in the back of your head warns you that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t such a good idea; that it isn’t worth a few chores. But then Steve flashes you a tiny smile, his own cheeks pink, and you swallow your doubts, putting on an even expression and climbing into the bed like it’s nothing; it is nothing.</p>
<p>It’s a game, and you’re the players. Nothing more. And in two weeks, you’ll return home, and everything will go back to the way it was. The game will end. You just have to reach the finish line.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>basically everything is the same in this universe (so like. a modernized version of the events of the show before steve and robin went off to college)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>DECEMBER 23</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: The Losers of Loft 522</b>
</p>
<p><b>10:46 AM - Robin Hood: </b>wakey wakey eggs n bakey</p>
<p><b>10:46 AM - Robin Hood: </b>*gif of titanic*</p>
<p><b>10:47 AM - Robin Hood: </b>is anyone alive out there</p>
<p><b>10:48 AM - Robin Hood: </b>how is your first morning in hell?</p>
<p><b>10:48 AM - Robin Hood:</b> I mean the Harrington house</p>
<p>The light streams in through the closed blinds and forms a pattern of white on the wall across Steve’s bedroom, a cold winter morning beckoning from beyond the glass. Beside you, Steve is curled half in the fetal position with a pillow balled against his chest, chin tucked against it. A small spot of drool has formed beneath his parted lips, and his usually ordered hair is a mess of waves and chunks, some sticking straight up, some curled over his forehead.</p>
<p>He’s far more handsome when he’s asleep, due to the key factor of unconsciousness; more accurately, the consistent close of his mouth. He almost looks….cute. Not the snarky, cocky, confident college kid, but a boy, sweet and adorable and-</p>
<p>Steve shifts, burrowing deeper into his pillow, and you shove the thoughts out of your head, blaming them on your brain’s lack of total awareness. Tearing your gaze from him, you let your eyes settle on the popcorn ceiling above the bed, old water spots staining the beige paint.</p>
<p>13 more days. You can make it 13 more days.</p>
<p>A knock on the door shoots ice through your veins, and you flinch, Steve half-levitating off the bed beside you, his eyes snapping open and his gaze flying to the door. An expression you’ve never seen before - fear - flashes briefly on his face as he wakes, confused for a moment before remembering where he is.</p>
<p>The expression makes something in your belly twist; what has Steve Harrington seen that makes him wake up like that? Like he’s expecting a monster to be standing at the foot of the bed?</p>
<p>Memories of mornings and nights in the apartment roll like film credits: Steve and Robin flinching like they’d seen a bear at a stray dog’s bark, Robin’s hesitancy in every elevator, the scars dusting Steve’s frame that he refuses to explain.</p>
<p>Maybe family isn’t the only reason Steve and Robin are reluctant to return to Hawkins. But if not family, what blood stains their ledgers so deeply after all this time? What ghosts still hang over them like sheets on a line, fluttering and ever-reminding them of what they left behind?</p>
<p>“Steve!” His father’s voice carries through the wood, but he doesn’t open the door, doesn’t so much as wiggle the knob; which, you hadn’t noticed last night, is locked. “Your grandparents will be here in half an hour. Get your ass out of bed, and be decent by the time they arrive.”</p>
<p>Steve flops onto his back, tossing an arm over his face.</p>
<p>“Got it!” He yells. His father doesn’t respond, and his light footsteps carry down the hall and presumably back down the stairs. At the silence, Steve pushes to a sitting position, the light catching the bump in his nose that he clearly wasn’t born with. You reach out to touch the tip of his nose without thinking, and he snaps his head toward you, brows furrowing, walls slammed up for a second before he remembers where he is and lets them back down.</p>
<p>“You’ve never told me what happened here. Or here,” you say, moving your finger to the tiny line on his cheek, thin pink scar arching over the cheekbone. His brows twitch and he turns away, climbing out of bed and moving to his dresser. He tugs open the drawer and digs out a faded gray tee with some company logo in white, his shoulders tense.</p>
<p>“They’re not really happy stories,” he says, and opens another dresser, pointedly <em>not</em> looking at you.</p>
<p>“I can’t exactly play my role if I don’t know the script.”</p>
<p>He straightens and turns to face you, features contorted.</p>
<p>“My parents don’t know,” he says, “so not a problem.”</p>
<p>You swing your legs over the bed and push to your feet; he’s not getting out of it that easily. He doesn’t get to drag you away for two weeks and keep secrets. He should trust you; you <em>want</em> him to trust you.</p>
<p>Frustration flashes hot in your blood. “Come on. It can’t be that bad.”</p>
<p>He snorts a laugh, but it’s humorless. Setting the clothes down on top of the dresser, he cocks his brows and says, “Fine. Ask away. But remember me saying I told you so.”</p>
<p>You’re surprised at the sudden honesty, though it’s clearly a challenge. A let-me-scare-you-off challenge.</p>
<p>“Okay.” You straighten. “You act like you’ve seen a ghost each time a Rottweiler bark. Why? Get bit by one as a kid, or something?”</p>
<p>“Not exactly.” He shrugs. “I don’t think it’s a dog,” he says. “I think it’s a monster.”</p>
<p>You sit back, brows furrowing. Now he’s just fucking with you. You huff, pushing to your feet and moving to your dresser, digging out a change of clothes hopefully deemed appropriate by his parents.</p>
<p>“Whatever.” You push past him and slip into the bathroom. Before you close the door, Steve just shrugs, a knowing smile playing on his lips, and says, “You asked.”</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: Robin &amp; Y/N</b>
</p>
<p><b>11:02 AM - You:</b> I might kill him</p>
<p><b>11:03 AM - Robin Hood:</b> ive had that thought my fair share of times</p>
<p><b>11:03 AM - Robin Hood:</b> any reason in particular?</p>
<p><b>11:04 AM - You:</b> every time I think he’s going to give up his stupid, mysterious thing, he just goes at it harder</p>
<p><b>11:05 AM - You:</b> he does realize friendship means talking about things, right?</p>
<p><b>11:05 AM - Robin Hood: </b>oh the whole secretive thing?</p>
<p><b>11:06 AM - You: </b>yeah the whole ‘secretive thing’</p>
<p><b>11:07 AM - Robin Hood:</b> look, you know im not one to toot Steve Harrington’s horn, god knows he does it for himself often enough, but when it comes to that, he has good reason</p>
<p><b>11:08 AM - Robin Hood:</b> just go easy on him, yeah? he’s got enough demons to deal with being home. he needs you, valiant knight.</p>
<p><b>11:08 AM - You: </b>ha. funny.</p>
<p>“So,” Steve says, pacing in front of the small whiteboard he’s dug out of his closet and hung on the wall like a sports coach, “we’ve got Grandpa Edgar.” He’s constructed a family tree, laying out the expected members. He points his dry erase marker at a stick man with the name EDGAR scrawled across it and the number 78, presumably his age. He moves it to his aunt and uncle, Henrietta and Gene, and their three children, the twins Gary and Henry, and their youngest Ford. Each has a girl stick figure beside them, with Gary’s fiancé Helen, Henry’s wife Juliette, and Ford’s high school-sweetheart girlfriend Daria. All of whom you heard about extensively on the drive home, but it’s clear Steve’s family puts him on edge, and you’re not willing to burst his bubble of preparation. “Gary and Henry are 26, and Ford is 22, and they’re all wildly successful in life, love, and finance.” Steve’s lips purse, the disdain etched into his features.</p>
<p>“You ever consider a career in the arts?” You ask, nodding to the whiteboard. “That’s some next-level shit right there.”</p>
<p>He gives you a withering look, but it quickly twists. He inclines his head, a sad, pleading expression on his face.</p>
<p>“Can we just climb out the window and flee?”</p>
<p>You snort and cross your arms. “Unfortunately, no.”</p>
<p>“Damnit.”</p>
<p>You move past him to the bedroom door, tugging it open and meeting his gaze.</p>
<p>“Come on,” you say. “Let’s meet the fockers.”</p>
<p>Steve laughs, not for long, not very loud, but it’s a break in the tension he’s shouldering, and you’re surprised to find something untwists inside you at the sight of it, like you’ve been carrying some of it, too.</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: The Losers of Loft 522</b>
</p>
<p><b>11:11 - Steve the Hair:</b> the jaws theme is on repeat in my head</p>
<p><b>11:12 - You: </b>Steve and his father are having a glare off across the sitting room. Harrington family incoming.</p>
<p><b>11:13 - Robin Hood:</b> *gif of Jack Black saluting*</p>
<p><b>11:14 - Steve the Hair:</b> the support is appreciated</p>
<p><b>11:14 - Steve the Hair: </b>yet underwhelming</p>
<p><b>11:15 - Robin Hood: </b>fuck off</p>
<p>You nudge Steve’s leg with yours, both of you sat closer than normal - the game, the role - on the loveseat in his family room. His parents sit across the small glass coffee table, and the tension in the room is palpable.</p>
<p>Something you’ve learned about Steve and his parents since arriving: they aren’t really a family, but something akin to roommates, people who live together but don’t necessarily have intertwined lives. Steve’s father has to be reminded what Steve is studying Criminal Justice twice in the span of twenty agonizing minutes.</p>
<p>Steve meets your gaze, and you reach out to take his hand, threading your fingers together. An hour ago, he was skating right along your nerves, but now, somehow, you’ve become allies in the quiet battle raging in the Harrington household.</p>
<p>He doesn’t pull away, though surprise flickers in his eyes before he remembers, and he gives you a grateful smile. It doesn’t feel that weird to hold his hand, his fingers calloused but steady in yours. He’s pushed all his stress into the hand you’re holding, and while the quick back and forth stroke of his thumb across your hand might be perceived as him comforting you, it’s actually the opposite; him, pushing the things he can’t hold onto you, and you, shouldering them. Not quite what you signed up for, but you can’t find a trace of irritation, not right now.</p>
<p>“Thirteen more days,” you murmur, leaning close enough that only he hears. His jaw clenches and he nods.</p>
<p>“I need a beer,” he retorts softly. Your lips quirk up.</p>
<p>“More like ten.”</p>
<p>“I’d settle for a solid four.”</p>
<p>You snort a laugh, and it grabs Steve’s parents’ attention. Clamping your mouth shut, you regain your composure. Luckily, the tense silence doesn’t last much longer, as a knock sounds on the door a second later.</p>
<p>Annabelle Harrington springs to her feet and clasps her hands together.</p>
<p>“That’ll be them!” She announces, fluttering to the door, Steve’s father close behind her.</p>
<p>Steve pushes to his feet beside you, and you join him, though you don’t let go of his hand.</p>
<p>“Thirteen days,” Steve murmurs to himself. You squeeze his hand.</p>
<p>
  <em>Thirteen days.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 23</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>7:32 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve’s mother manages to make enough room around the already large table for the even-larger collection of Steve’s family, though it’s tight. At the heads of the table sit Steve’s father and his grandfather, who have been locked in a silent stare down since his arrival; an underlying tension between them Steve has yet to explain. Along one side, Steve’s three cousins - Gary, Henry, and Ford - and their significant others, Helen, Juliette, and Daria. Their father, Steve’s uncle, is squished in on your side, with Steve, his mother and his aunt Henrietta.</p>
<p>To say it’s awkward would be the understatement of the century. And there have been quite a few understatements the last few years.</p>
<p>Half the conversation is Gary, Henry, and Ford boasting about their law firms or tech jobs or whatever the hell they’re talking about - you zone after about three seconds - and the other half is pointed insults at Steve, comparisons between him and his cousins.</p>
<p>“So, Steve,” his uncle, Gene, begins, narrowing thick brows at him across the table, “I hear you’re studying crime or something of that sort?”</p>
<p>Ford snickers, and Daria jerks; a beat later, Ford winces, like he’s been kicked in the shin. At Daria’s triumphant but tiny smile, you get the feeling he was.</p>
<p>Of everyone at the table, besides Steve, only Daria seems to be a genuine human being. But, then again, she’s at a table with one of Steve’s horrible cousins, so, the jury is still out.</p>
<p>Steve stiffness and the tips of his fork shriek loudly against his glass plate as he drops it. He lifts his head, a low-burning fire flaming to life in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Criminal Justice,” he says thinly.</p>
<p>“Criminal justice? The hell you going to do with that?” Ford asks.</p>
<p>“Language,” scolds his mother, but he ignores her. All eyes turn to Steve, who bristles beneath the attention, like a predator beneath a spotlight. It’s like he’s scanning a battlefield and gauging his opponents rather than having a family dinner. You squirm uncomfortably.</p>
<p>Your job is to sit there and play a character. But, then again, Steve never gave any specifics as to who that character is.</p>
<p>“It’s a precursor to the police academy,” you interrupt, drawing some of the fire and the attention. “Four years for the degree, then an academy, then the force. It’s, what, five to eight years before you can make detective?”</p>
<p>Steve’s lips part and he looks at you in shock for a moment too long before nodding; like he’s surprised you know, surprised you’ve been listening. You surprise yourself with the knowledge, not having realized you possessed so much of it. After months of living in an apartment with him, you suppose you know more of Steve Harrington than you realized.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and looking around, putting his walls back up. “That’s the plan.”</p>
<p>Ford, rendered silent across the table, folds his arms and glares at you. A surge of satisfaction rushes through you and you flash him a quick smirk.</p>
<p>“Sounds like quite a commitment,” Gary says. “You think you’re up for that, Stevie?”</p>
<p>Steve only stiffens further.</p>
<p>“So kind of you to be concerned, <em>Gare-Bear</em>,” Steve snaps. His father’s expression darkens.</p>
<p>“Steven,” he warns, and anger flashes hot in your gut. They’re tossing Steve out to sea and getting angry when he tries not to drown.</p>
<p>Your mind rifles through memories, comments Steve has made in passing, little complaints you thought you’d thrown out but had merely tucked away; <em>ammunition</em>.</p>
<p>“I don’t know if you should be talking about commitment, Gary,” you say casually, twirling your fork around your spaghetti and meeting his gaze with an innocent smile. “After all, weren’t there a few ‘<em>the one</em>’s’ before Juliette?” It’s not quite fair to Juliette, who only has the misfortune of being there, but the dark-haired wife of Gary hasn’t made the slightest effort to stand up for Steve - none of them have, save for Daria - so your compassion runs low.</p>
<p>Juliette’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, and Gary’s face goes so red it looks like it might melt off.</p>
<p>“Steven,” Steve’s father snaps, smacking his fist against the table and seeming to shake the room. Both you and Steve flinch. “That’s enough. You and your girlfriend are excused.”</p>
<p>Steve pushes back and up out of his chair, holding out a hand to you. You take it and stand.</p>
<p>“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says and leads you out of the dining room and into the foyer.</p>
<p>“Where are we going?” You ask. He grabs his jacket off the rack and hands you yours, shrugging his arms into the coat and tugging open the front door.</p>
<p>“Feel like a party?” He asks. “Alcohol, and a house far the fuck away from mine.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely,” you say, and follow him out into the cold night.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 23</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>10:41 PM</b>
</p>
<p>The party, held at the home of one of Steve’s graduating class members, is bustling before you arrive, and after thirty minutes inside the warm house, it feels like half the teenagers in Hawkins are in the building. Fairy lights strung every which way across the ceiling light the rooms, each filled with body heat and dancing and the underlying scent of alcohol. Someone has a speaker set up in the main living room, and a boy on aux behind a table controls the playlist, though he’s constantly bombarded by the line of people trying to request.</p>
<p>Steve points out various kids - no longer kids or teens, but young adults, 20 and 21 and 22 - around the room, and you attach names from stories to actual faces. The music pulses like a heartbeat, and though you were doing well keeping focused on Steve’s explanations in the beginning, the jungle juice and music are infectious, and with each minute your concentration dips beneath the buzz building in your head.</p>
<p>Steve goes still suddenly, and you crane your neck, following his line of sight to a couple across the room - a girl, mousy brown curls chopped just above her shoulder, and a boy, thin hair flopping over his forehead, his lips curled up in a shy smile as he bends in to kiss her. It’s obvious enough from his reaction who they are and requires no explanation: Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers. Steve’s ex-girlfriend. Even if he’s on good terms with her, it doesn’t hurt any less to see someone you loved being loved by someone else, even if you’re over it, even if the wound has healed. Even scars ache from time to time.</p>
<p>His gaze shifts to another group across the room - a boy with dark freckles and darker hair, a redhead with a sour twist to her mouth, and a girl with a hairdo that should have been left in the 80s - and his lips turn down in a frown.</p>
<p>You touch his arm and draw his attention to you. “You want to dip?”</p>
<p>He hesitates and shakes his head.</p>
<p>“No,” he says. “I want to dance.” He lifts the red solo cup to his lips and takes a long drag, and you do the same, stacking the cups when they’re empty and deserting them on the ledge above the fireplace.</p>
<p>“I was hoping you’d say that.” You smile, taking his hand and dragging him into the throng of people, bodies moving to the beat, body heat nearly palpable like a mist hanging in the air.</p>
<p>The fuzzy sensation building in your skull, like cotton balls, blurs the world’s edges, drags it all into one room; that room, dark and dim, bustling and busy, loud and full of life. It’s impossible not to touch, but after a second, you realize you don’t have to stay away; you’re the girlfriend, the partner, the one, whatever you want to call it.</p>
<p>Your hands find Steve’s waist, gripping the thin fabric of his shirt as you tug him closer, and he doesn’t hesitate, his arms winding around you. It isn’t graceful, nor lithe, nor smooth; it’s swaying and jumping and moving and laughing, and even if it’s rough and sweaty and cramped, it’s fun; really, truly, <em>fun</em>.</p>
<p>The songs blur together - though Steve gets <em>far</em> too excited when The Box plays, and bitches <em>far</em> too loud when it’s skipped before the end - into beats and lyrics and the seconds in between when the room seems to hang still in time, sweaty bodies stilling and breath puffing and cans crinkling as another song rears to life.</p>
<p><em>The Hills </em>by The Weeknd sputters to life on the speaker, and Steve presses closer, closer, closer until your back hits the wall, and his hands are climbing up and down your arms, fingers fluttering over your neck and into your hair. The music and the heat and your slow, languid thoughts make it feel normal, make it feel like <em>exactly</em> what you should be doing; and even then, if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t take your hands away.</p>
<p>You’re just playing a game, right? Might as well win.</p>
<p>Steve lifts his head, throwing a lazy glance around the room, and meets your gaze, his eyes blown and hair sticking up every which way.</p>
<p><em>Beautiful</em>, you think, before the alcohol spins the thought away and out of your mind.</p>
<p>“Half the room is staring,” he says, something akin to nervousness flashing in his eyes. You bite down on your lip and scan the room; Nancy and Jonathan are watching but pretending not to, and the trio Steve reigned with before the fragile kingdom of high school fell isn’t even trying to hide the attention.</p>
<p>Confidence - too strong, inevitably alcohol wrought - rears to life inside you, and you meet Steve’s gaze, winding your arms around his neck.</p>
<p>“Let’s give them something real to stare at, then,” you say, and let a hand shift to the back of his neck, drawing his face to yours.</p>
<p>His mouth is hot on yours, tasting of juice tinged with the fire of tequila, and he presses you against the wall, parting your lips with his own, tongue flicking against your teeth. It’s three hundred miles beyond the peck agreed on in the car, and yet, <em>yet, yet</em>…the thoughts spin away, unraveling like thread and falling to the floor, forgotten.</p>
<p>The clock strikes twelve without your realizing it. <em>Twelve more days.</em></p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>12:43 AM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve keeps his arms wrapped around you as you stumble along the sidewalk through the dimly lit streets, though more for the sake of both your balance than anything else. You’re tipping over the edge of the rollercoaster, some of your thoughts stringing themselves back together and the buzz softening its hum. You’re not far enough over the edge to trust your feet, however, hence the awkward leaning and staggering.</p>
<p>His house is - according to him - only half a mile away, which you’re unsure of, but you don’t trust either of you not to puke in an Uber, and you know with absolute certainty neither of you can afford the $150 cleaning fee.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you want to go home?” Steve asks, breath arcing out in a white puff.</p>
<p>You huff a laugh.</p>
<p>“Oh, hell no. You don’t get to know all my secrets if I don’t get any of yours. That’s not how this works.”</p>
<p>He stops, and you stumble a few steps forward before stopping to face him. He frowns, confused.</p>
<p>“Fake dating?”</p>
<p>“<em>Friendship</em>,” you say, “you absolute fool.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Duh.”</p>
<p>You cock your brows, waiting, and Steve’s frown deepens.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Are you ever going to tell me?”</p>
<p>“Tell you what?”</p>
<p>“What happened in Hawkins to make you so scared of it?”</p>
<p>He stiffens, and for a long moment, you expect him to divert or abort or run away, but he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he shrugs, like he’s giving in to someone or something, like <em>fine, you win.</em></p>
<p>“I wasn’t lying this morning,” he says, words surprisingly even considering the circumstances, “when I said I look for monsters. I do. Even after…hell, a year and a half? Two years?”</p>
<p>You resist the urge to tell him to shut up easier than you did earlier, though that can likely be attributed to the alcohol as well, and find yourself wanting to believe him. Not quite believing, but halfway to it.</p>
<p>“I know it sounds insane.” He rakes a hand through his hair, letting out a laugh. “Hell, I didn’t believe it at first. But you asked for the truth.” He meets your gaze, shockingly honest. “I won’t lie to you. You want my secrets? I’ll give ‘em to you.”</p>
<p>You pause and take a step toward him.</p>
<p>“I’m waiting.”  </p>
<p>He takes a breath and nods.</p>
<p>“It all starts with the disappearance of a boy named Will Byers…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. part 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: The Losers of Loft 522</b>
</p>
<p><b>10:07 AM - Robin Hood:</b> <em>merry Christmas Eve! hopefully Santa doesn’t leave coal in your stockings! you think you’re on the naughty list for this fake relationship thing?</em></p>
<p><b>10:07 AM - Robin Hood:</b> <em>cuz I’d put money on it</em></p>
<p>When your eyes open, it takes a long few seconds for your brain to wake itself up, scattered memories of the night before blurred by all the alcohol but still, thankfully, clear. A headache pulses beneath your skull, pounding to the beat of your heart, a steady <em>thump thump thumping</em>. Even with the blinds pulled and the covers hoisted halfway over your face, the room is too bright, too <em>alive</em>.</p>
<p>Steve is facing away from you, the smooth curve of his shoulder and the crown of his head the only thing visible above the covers. His lips part, a soft sigh slipping out, and something inside your gut twists sharply.</p>
<p>The party. The music. The alcohol. The foolish urge to show off, to prove a bunch of Steve Harrington’s old classmates wrong, to leap across the boundary line and bury it beneath the sand. You lift a hand to your lips - lips so recently kissed - and drop it like your skin is hot to the touch.</p>
<p>You kissed Steve Harrington, and not in the way you were supposed to; not the way you agreed on. It was hot and heavy and quick and sharp and <em>far better </em>than it had any right to be.</p>
<p>Sometimes, our hearts figure things out before we do. They race down the road and wait at the finish line waving a banner we are too far away to see. They try to warn us, try to turn us away or push us closer, try to prepare us for the moment our minds put the final puzzle pieces together.</p>
<p>And looking at a sleeping Steve, curled up beneath the blankets, chest rising and falling softly with his breath, you realize something your heart has known for a long, long time: you’re in love with him. Not like, would take a bullet for love, or like, would kill for love, but like, the opening of a door kind of love, the new, fresh kind, still pulling itself into concrete form. Like, a could be love, a love that could bloom into something incredible if it has the chance.</p>
<p>The second realization hits just as hard, if not harder, than the first: it doesn’t matter how you feel, because he doesn’t feel the same. He, who has been explicitly clear on the ‘fake’ aspect of this whole thing. He, who only went too far because you pushed him.</p>
<p>Regret flashes hot and sharp in your gut, twisting and piercing; you shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have gotten so close, shouldn’t have agreed to this fucking trip, shouldn’t have done any of it.</p>
<p>You should be back in your apartment on campus with Robin, getting drunk off shitty wine and watching horrible Hallmark movies. You should be thinking about some foolish person from a class or a kid from a party, not your roommate, not Steve. Steve, who consistently forgets his dishes need to be loaded, and Steve, who has thrown up outside the bathroom far too many drunk nights, and Steve, who is dorky and foolish and handsome and kind and…</p>
<p>And you’re fucked. Absolutely, completely, totally, fucked.</p>
<p>12 more days is a bigger mountain than it was the night before, and you have no goddamn clue how you’re going to climb it.</p>
<p>Steve rolls over and grumbles himself awake, pushing your train of thought off the track. He pops his head out of the covers, brows furrowing for a moment at the sight of you before his expression smoothes and he falls back against the pillow with a sigh.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” he mumbles, “I feel like there’s a swarm of bees in my head.”</p>
<p>“Went a little too hard on the jungle juice, you think?”</p>
<p>He gives you a withering look, and says, “Maybe if <em>you’d</em> stopped bringing me <em>cups</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, this is not my fault!”</p>
<p>He pouts. “My throbbing skull begs to differ.”</p>
<p>“You and your throbbing skull are drama queens.”</p>
<p>He pushes to a sitting position against the headboard and frowns.</p>
<p>“I remember getting to the party, and you stuffing drinks into my hands, and then…I remember walking home. The rest is…fuzzy.” He crinkles his nose. Your stomach twists; he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or upset about that.</p>
<p>“You don’t remember…what we talked about?”</p>
<p>He frowns, shakes his head, and says, “You working all my secrets out? No, I remember that.” He flashes you a lopsided grin, but you can only grimace in reply. “I’m kinda shocked you didn’t run away screaming. I was sure I’d wake up and you’d be long gone.”</p>
<p>“Thought you could get rid of me that easy?”</p>
<p>He grins. “Had my fingers crossed.” You swat him, and he laughs, squirming out of your reach. His expression goes serious. “Why didn’t you run screaming? You got a lot of experience with friends telling stories about the monsters they fought in high school?”</p>
<p>You snort. “The only monsters we had in my high school were the high school girls,” you say. “But this, this is definitely a first for me.”</p>
<p>“And you’re not…freaked out?”</p>
<p>“Oh, absolutely freaked out,” you say. “It sounds insane, but I actually believe you, and that’s what’s terrifying. But they’re gone, now. Hawkins is just Hawkins. Right?”</p>
<p>Steve nods.</p>
<p>“Has been for almost two years.”</p>
<p>“Do you think they’ll come back? The…Mind Flayer, or whatever?”</p>
<p>He shrugs, and says, “The thing would be pretty damned stupid to come back after getting its ass beat, what, three times?” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t come back.”</p>
<p>“And yet, here you are.”</p>
<p>He frowns.</p>
<p>“I see the irony,” he says. You grin.</p>
<p>“If they do come back, I call dibs on the ‘I told you so.’” Steve grimaces, but it quickly pulls into a genuine smirk.</p>
<p>“Pretty sure Robin has dibs on that one.”</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: Robin &amp; Y/N</b>
</p>
<p><b>11:24 AM - You:</b> <em>so an elevator phobia?</em></p>
<p><b>11:25 AM - Robin:</b> <em>im guessing you know</em></p>
<p><b>11:25 AM - Robin:</b> <em>Steve give you the whole story?</em></p>
<p><b>11:26 AM - You:</b> <em>yep</em></p>
<p><b>11:26 AM - You:</b> <em>demogorgons and mind flayers and monsters, oh my!</em></p>
<p><b>11:27 AM - Robin:</b> <em>we could have used that horrible dry humor down in Starcourt Mall</em></p>
<p>
  <b>11:28 AM - You: </b>
  <em>what a shame</em>
</p>
<p><b>11:28 AM - Robin:</b> <em>im sorry I didn’t tell you. not like its something you can bring up in casual conversation without sounding like a maniac.</em></p>
<p><b>11:29 AM - You:</b> <em>dont be sorry, I get it. if I got kidnapped by Russians beneath a mall I’d probably be a little nervous sharing it</em></p>
<p>
  <b>11:29 AM - You: </b>
  <em>plus, those uniforms? ick.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>11:30 AM - Robin: </b>
  <em>he didn’t.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>11:30 AM - You: </b>
  <em>oh he did *photo of Robin in her Scoops Ahoy uniform holding up her whiteboard with a frown*</em>
</p>
<p><b>11:31 AM - Robin:</b> <em>im gonna fucking kill him</em></p>
<p><b>11:32 AM - You:</b> <em>youll have to get in line behind me and the demogorgons</em></p>
<p>“So, this is Dustin we’re meeting?” You ask, kicking your feet up on Steve’s dash and leaning back in the seat. He frowns, reaching over to knock your feet down, and you stick out your tongue at him.</p>
<p>“Mhmm,” he hums. “Curly haired nerd with a sailor’s mouth.” He drives down Main Street, its sidewalks bustling with last-minute holiday shoppers bundled up against the cold. He pulls into a spot on the street in front of a diner that looks straight out of the eighties, not unlike half the town, as if suspended in time, parts of Hawkins clinging to the past and refusing to let go.</p>
<p>“It’s sweet that you still hang out with them,” you say. “I mean, you didn’t have to save their lives, and you certainly didn’t have to keep watching out for them after. But you still are.”</p>
<p>His cheeks flush and he puts the car in park, shrugging casually.</p>
<p>“There was never really a choice, you know?” He meets your gaze. “I didn’t, like, decide to help them. I just did it, because I <em>had</em> to, because if I didn’t… And now…” He shrugs, leaning back against the seat and undoing his seatbelt. “I don’t know. Guess those little shits got under my skin. I guess I just like knowing they’re all still okay.”</p>
<p>You smile at him, and his own lips turn up in a surprised grin.</p>
<p>“It’s <em>sweet</em>.”</p>
<p>He shrugs again, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. You turn away to unclip your seatbelt and reach for the door handle only to find someone else popping it open; Steve, moving around the car with lightning speed to open your door. Your stomach flips, and you have to threaten your cheeks not to flush; it’s a game, and you’re the players. It’s just a role, and he’s pulling it off flawlessly.</p>
<p>You climb out of the car and give him a small smile, which he returns before nudging your door shut and turning to the restaurant. He’s just opened his mouth to speak when someone down the block calls his name.</p>
<p>“Harrington!” A boy no older than fifteen with corkscrew curls and a baseball hat runs down the block toward you and Steve, lips curled up in a toothy grin. Dustin Henderson; you’ve heard stories about this boy, even before Steve told you the full truth.</p>
<p>“Henderson!” Steve exclaims, grinning and stepping out to greet Dustin when he reaches him. The two dive into a complicated handshake that ends with some exaggerated - and, though you’ll never admit it, adorable - motions before collapsing into laughter.</p>
<p>That familiar twist yanks on your gut, and you fold your arms across your chest as if to hold the feeling in. How is it that three days ago, a dorky Steve Harrington made your lip curl, and now, it’s ridiculously endearing?</p>
<p>Twelve days. Twelve more days of this, and you can go home, go back to normal. Just twelve more days.</p>
<p>Dustin turns to you, an accusatory but amused expression on his lips.</p>
<p>“So, this is the secret girlfriend I’ve heard <em>nothing</em> about,” he says, eyes on you, the question directed at Steve. Steve rolls his eyes and sidles up beside you, slipping an arm around your waist.</p>
<p>
  <em>A game, a game, it’s just a game.</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, like you haven’t done your fair share of lying.”</p>
<p>“<em>Uh</em>, I told you <em>all</em> about Suzie! How is it <em>my</em> fault you didn’t believe me?”</p>
<p>Steve rolls his eyes again and nudges you forward, jerking a chin at Dustin.</p>
<p>“Come on, Henderson,” he says. “You can grill me over a plate of fries.”</p>
<p>“You’re buying?” Dustin asks, perking up. Steve scoffs.</p>
<p>“Have you come into some fortune in the four months I was gone?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Then get in the restaurant and shut up, or you’re only getting water.”</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>1:32 PM</b>
</p>
<p>The inside of the diner is an explosion of color, with dozens of small metal signs plastered on every visible inch of wall, bright red, blue, and yellow leather booths, and a checkerboard floor, it truly is a place out of time. Even the wait staff is wearing retro diner gear, pink and black puffy skirts or blue and white pouffy sleeved shirts.</p>
<p>You, Steve, and Dustin squeeze into a booth in the back corner, and though initially spacious, the trickling in of the rest of Steve’s kids makes for tight quarters. After half an hour, the booth is stuffed with you, Steve, Dustin, and five other kids, all of whom you’ve heard of through stories from both Robin and Steve: Mike Wheeler, Max Mayfield, Eleven - a telepath, which you’re trying to be chill about - Will Byers, and Lucas Sinclair. You’re squished between Steve and El, Mike on El’s other side, with the other four opposite you.</p>
<p>“Wait, wait, wait…” Lucas says, planting his palms against the table. “So you’re saying…” He meets Max’s gaze, and the pair grin widely at each other before looking to you and Steve. In tandem, they say loudly, “And they were roommates!”</p>
<p>The children collapse into giggles, clearly pleased with themselves, and Steve rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“Were you any of you even <em>alive</em> when vine died?” Steve asks.</p>
<p>“How young do you think we are?” Will asks, lips lifting into a smile. Steve pretends to think about it.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, twelve?”</p>
<p>You elbow him, and he laughs. “You’re even worse than them,” you say. He waggles his brows, and snakes an arm around you, tugging you closer.</p>
<p>“But far more handsome,” he says, ducking to press a kiss to your cheek.</p>
<p>“Gross,” Will says, shaking his head.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t act like you and Jacob Wilcox aren’t doing more than that behind the bleachers,” Mike says. Will’s cheeks flame red, but a shy, tiny smile tugs on his lips.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” he says halfheartedly.</p>
<p>“You two,” Steve says, craning his head to jerk a chin at Mike and El, “are no better. What’s Hopper’s rule for the door, huh? Three inches?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>, that’s how small your dick-” Dustin starts, only to be swatted into silence by Max.</p>
<p>“Does that really work?” You ask, looking to El. “I mean, you can just close the door when he opens it, right?”</p>
<p>She grins mischievously, the answer in the expression.</p>
<p>“When you get a little older, you won’t have to listen to any of that,” Steve says. “You won’t have to hide from your parents just to make out with your girlfriend.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Dustin asks. Steve frowns, and Dustin looks around, sneaky grins tugging on all the kid’s lips. “Your viagra.”</p>
<p>Steve chucks a fry at Dustin, who catches it in his mouth and chews with a wide grin.</p>
<p>“Remind me to make you all walk home.”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry,” Dustin says, that same grin stuck to his mouth, “I’ll catch a ride with Mike and Will and El. Nance and Jonathan are picking them up.”</p>
<p>Steve bristles for a moment, only visible to someone watching; only visible to <em>you</em>.</p>
<p>Steve Harrington might claim to be over Nancy Wheeler, but the heart does what it wants, wants who it wants, and doesn’t care for logistics. Something poisonous and stinging surges through you, curdling like sour milk and twisting your lips into a frown that you have to force away.</p>
<p>Maybe he isn’t over her. Not that it matters, considering the circumstances, considering who and what you are - fake, a placeholder - but the embers of hope lurking deep inside you fizzle out anyway, and you have to force a plastic smile onto your lips.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>3:13 PM</b>
</p>
<p>After a massive helping of all the dishes ordered by the table, all eight of you are happily settled into food comas in the corner booth. Steve has an arm wrapped around you, and you’re leaning into his side, and when all falls quiet, you let yourself pretend its real; that you’re meeting these kids as Steve’s actual girlfriend, that you’re here for real, not just to play a role and support Steve. You want it to be real so badly you can practically taste it.</p>
<p>A text to Mike indicating the arrival of Nancy and Jonathan moves the table into motion, everyone pushing out of the booth and squeezing through the small restaurant to the front door. You and Steve follow behind the kids, and he reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours.</p>
<p>It’s a different touch than the lazy, casual ones in the booth, the ones clearly for show. It feels different, feels more real. Like Steve is holding onto you to keep himself steady, to pull your strength into him.</p>
<p>When you reach the front doors and push out into the cold afternoon, the kids split off, Lucas and Max heading to a bike rack and the other four going for a green car idling at the curb. Nancy and Jonathan - dressed down compared to the night before at the party, understandable - climb out, and Jonathan’s lips curl up into a smile as Will jogs to the car. He ruffles his little brother’s hair before popping open the back door.</p>
<p>“Bye, Steve!” Will calls before climbing in. He meets your gaze. “Nice to meet you!” Mike and El climb in after him, giving you and Steve goodbyes, and Dustin goes last, wrapping Steve in a hug. Steve hesitates a beat before wrapping his arms around the boy, hugging him tightly for a beat before letting him go.</p>
<p>Dustin turns to you next, that toothy grin tugging on his lips.</p>
<p>“You be good to him, you hear me?”</p>
<p>“I promise,” you say. He nods.</p>
<p>“Good.” He hesitates, and says. “I approve, just so you know.”</p>
<p>Your chest swells, and you’re unable to keep from smiling.</p>
<p>“I appreciate it.”</p>
<p>He smiles and heads to the car, climbing in and pulling the door shut behind him. Nancy and Jonathan cross the short sidewalk to greet you, and Nancy gives Steve a quick hug before the pair turn to face you.</p>
<p>“You’re the secret girlfriend the kids won’t shut up about,” Nancy says, friendly and smiling. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet properly last night. Everyone was…” She flicks a glance at Steve, then back at you. “Busy. But it’s nice to meet you. I’m Nancy.” She holds out a hand, and you shake it. “This is my boyfriend, Jonathan.” You shake his hand next, and he smiles, polite but reserved.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sorry about that. Four months away at college, and we still can’t handle our alcohol.”</p>
<p>Nancy laughs.</p>
<p>“Don’t sweat it. God knows I’ve had a few nights like that.” Her face twists for a beat and she flicks a glance at Steve, who is pointedly not looking at her. “Anyways. We should get the kids home.”</p>
<p>“Nice to meet you,” Jonathan says. He and Steve nod at each other, and Nancy and Jonathan return to the car, piling in and pulling away. Dustin rolls down the window, stretching out a hand to wave at you and Steve until the car turns down the street and disappears.</p>
<p>“Well,” you say, “that was only marginally awkward.”</p>
<p>Steve snorts a laugh and digs his keys out of his pocket.</p>
<p>“I’ll take that over family dinner any day,” he says.</p>
<p>“Too late to run away?” You ask, lips curling up in a grin.</p>
<p>“If only,” Steve says, and heads for his car.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 25</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>7:02 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve’s cousins pull out bottles of scotch and wine after dinner, the only decision they’ve made that you agree with. The family settles around the living room, Steve’s parents in an armchair, his aunt and uncle on the loveseat, Henry, Juliette, Gary, and Helen in chairs pulled up, and you, Steve, Ford, and Daria on the big couch.</p>
<p>The spirits make his family bearable to be around, softening their hard edges and tugging their focus from the constant berating of Steve. Neither of you is drinking, still wary from the previous night’s hangover, and watch as the rest of his family devolves into various levels of intoxication.</p>
<p>“So, Steve,” Daria asks, setting her wine glass on the coffee table and leaning forward to meet his gaze. “You still haven’t told us how you got the girl.”</p>
<p>“Got the girl?” He asks, cocking a brow.</p>
<p>“Come on. You have to tell us the story. If not now, we’ll drag it out at the wedding, so you might as well get it over with,” Helen says, her first words to you and Steve that day. Helen is quiet, not as cutting as her fiancé Gary, not as harsh as Henry’s wife Juliette.</p>
<p>Her words aren’t intended to be sharp, but they hit you both like needles; the wedding.</p>
<p>If this were real - if the two of you were real - that sentence would make you nervous, excited maybe, at the prospect, at the silent approval given by the words.</p>
<p>But it’s not real, so it hurts, and because it’s not real, you have to hide it.</p>
<p>You duck your chin, forcing a shy smile on your lips, meeting Steve’s gaze through feathered lashes. You take his hand and squeeze, effortlessly sliding into your role.</p>
<p>“You tell it,” you say. Steve shoots you a glare that lasts a tenth of a second, to which you smirk before letting the smile settle back into a more pleasant one.</p>
<p>He got you in this mess, and he gets to explain it.</p>
<p>Steve settles back against the couch, leaning into you, and throws up his facade, looking around the room with a small smile.</p>
<p>“Robin and I needed a third roommate, and Y/N was looking for a place, so it kinda just worked out. We all got close pretty fast, but with Y/N it was…different.” He flicks a glance at you, and you force a supportive smile, as if urging him to continue, though the last thing you want to hear is more of this beautifully wonderful but painful lie. “She made me laugh. And she listened to what I said, even when it was stupid.” He looks to you, and this time, he doesn’t look away. God, you wish he would look away. “It was like I’d spent all this time looking for something, and I didn’t even realize it was right in front of me until it hit me in the face with a hairbrush.”</p>
<p>You avert your gaze, cheeks flushing, and look to Helen, a safe set of eyes.</p>
<p>“A month in, Robin was gone for the night, and Steve came back at like, 2 am, and scared the hell out of me. I accidentally smacked him with a hairbrush.”</p>
<p>“It was <em>not</em> an accident.”</p>
<p>“I thought you were a burglar!”</p>
<p>“Our doors have <em>magnetized</em> keys! It’s basically impossible to break in!”</p>
<p>You huff, and Steve grins, pleased with his victory, and you catch Daria’s eyes on you, a knowing smile on her lips.</p>
<p>“<em>Anyways</em>,” Steve continues, “after she hit me in the face with a hairbrush, she stayed up with me for two hours cleaning the blood off my face and holding ice to my head.”</p>
<p>“And that’s when you knew?” Daria asks. Steve frowns.</p>
<p>“Knew?”</p>
<p>“Knew you loved her, idiot,” Ford snaps, wrapping an arm around Daria’s shoulders. Steve’s cheeks go pink, and he pointedly avoids your gaze. You squeeze his hand, urging him on. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak, and you steel yourself, pushing a smile onto your lips.</p>
<p>“When he sneezed, got blood all over my shirt, and I didn’t get mad,” you say. He meets your gaze, eyes grateful, a tiny smile tugging on his lips as he falls into the story.</p>
<p>“And that was it,” he says. You smile, shoving down the bile clawing its way up your throat, ignoring the twisting, knifing, aching in your gut, push away the tears threatening to fall.</p>
<p>“And that was it,” you agree.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. part 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the playlist referenced in this fic can be found at this link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2IAyhbpXDKa0yDlj2TUQD4?si=Df76dzluR7K8jvj8f1C6wA</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>8:45 PM</b>
</p>
<p>The adults, unsurprisingly, can’t handle their liquor, and everyone over the age of thirty is in bed before 8:15. Henry, Gary, Juliette, and Helen are next, and Ford leaves soon after, though Daria stays in the living room with you and Steve. When you finally get up and make for the hallway, Daria catches you as you’re following Steve up the stairs to his bedroom.</p>
<p>“Y/N!” She calls. You pause, turning to face her, and her lips curl up in a wide smile. “I have some last-minute shopping to do. Interested?”</p>
<p>Of all the members of Steve’s family, only Daria is tolerable. She’s someone you could see as a friend if things were different. She could be a refuge for a future of family reunions such as this if there were a chance you were coming back.</p>
<p>You won’t be coming back. You know that. After the play ends, the curtain falls, and the actors find new roles.</p>
<p>You glance back at Steve, your mouth already parting in protest, but looking at him reminds you of everything he said an hour ago, all the beautiful, horrible lies he wove around you. The kind and open expression on his face as he spoke, the ease with which he turned one of your stories into a grand romance. You can see it, if you squint hard enough; you can see the forking path and what you might have found had either of you looked.</p>
<p>The thought of joining him in his room and curling up beside him in his bed and pretending you’re everything you aren’t - pretending you’re <em>something</em> to Steve Harrington - gives you pause.</p>
<p>It’s immature, definitely selfish, certainly not in character, but you’d rather sit through another round of his cousins’ interrogations than lay mere inches from a boy you’re not allowed to have; a boy who doesn’t want you.</p>
<p>“Sure,” you say. Daria’s grin widens.</p>
<p>“Good,” she says, “because you’re driving.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>9:01 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Hawkins Main Street is busy and bustling, despite being nine o’clock on Christmas Eve, with even more frantic last-minute shoppers trying to check items off lists as the holiday deadline rapidly approaches.</p>
<p>Daria’s dark curls are wrapped in a messy bun atop her head, effortless and frustratingly still put together and she’s bundled up in one of Ford’s winter coats, the large jacket dwarfing her petite frame and hanging down to her knees. Her fluffy boots crunch the snow as she climbs out of the car and you join her on the sidewalk, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep warm. You didn’t bring a jacket and regret it profusely.</p>
<p>“Should have snagged one of Steve’s,” Daria says, flashing you a smile and turning to one of the boutiques, it’s storefront window decorated in paper snowflakes and fake snow. You head for the door, tugging it open and getting smacked with a rush of warm air. Daria lets out a sigh at the warmth as she steps into the boutique, and you follow her inside.</p>
<p>The store has no official theme, seeming to be a home of knick-knacks and an assortment of weird sweaters and tables topped with candles and booklets and notebooks and other little things. Daria heads straight for the back of the store, and you trail slowly after her.</p>
<p>“Ford is the easiest guy to shop for,” she says as you join her, lips curling up. “Mostly because he’s too afraid of me to complain about the gifts. Why do you think he’s so well dressed?”</p>
<p>You laugh. “I’m guessing that’s your doing.”</p>
<p>“Completely my doing.” She turns back to the racks of sweaters, tapping her chin with a finger as she inspects them. She shoots you a grin over her shoulder. “I’m doing a gag gift this year. Find me the ugliest sweater you can.”</p>
<p>You nod and give her a mock salute - which she returns with a wide smile - and head for the far wall where a particularly ugly and bright sweater is calling your name. Orange, white, and red, massive and inevitably scratchy, the Popeyes sweater hangs at the center of the display, the other ‘ugly’ sweaters paling in comparison to its horrific glory. Striped orange and white with red bordering, the orange stripes read POPEYES and the white are adorned with pixelated burgers and red Christmas trees. It’s utterly horrific in the best possible way.</p>
<p>You turn and call for Daria, gaze landing on a young couple a few yards away inspecting a table with assorted candles on it. The boy lifts a candle to his nose and sniffs, face twisting instantly as he shoves it away.</p>
<p>“Try this,” he tells the girl beside him, her hand in his. She bends over to sniff it, and her face contorts just as her boyfriends did, and she swats him, the boy laughing.</p>
<p>“That’s disgusting,” she says, and the boy sets the candle down, reaching for her and tugging her into his arms. She squirms playfully, eventually settling and twisting to face him, winding her arms around his neck.</p>
<p>“If you keep sticking gross candles in my face, I will dump you.”</p>
<p>“But then who would do this?” He asks, a grin tugging on his lips as he ducks to pepper kisses all over the girl’s face. She laughs, squirming in his grip, her happiness practically tangible.</p>
<p>The sight makes your stomach turn, makes spikes unfold in your gut, makes your chest tighten and ache. The ease and effortlessness of them, and the way they look at the other like no one else matters, and the lilt of their laughter. It’s too much, far too much, and tears prick the back of your eyes.</p>
<p>You turn back to the sweater wall, whatever excitement you’d had upon finding Daria’s gift far away, replaced by a twisting, piercing pain in your gut.</p>
<p>There will never be a moment in which you and Steve resemble the couple in the store. It doesn’t matter how many fake kisses you share or nights you spend in the same bed, or even how believable your show is. It’s still a game, and Steve is still just your friend, and that’s all it will ever be.</p>
<p>“Now that,” Daria says, coming up behind you, “is fucking incredible.”</p>
<p>You swipe a hand across your face, wiping the moisture away and nodding, taking a moment to regain your composure before turning to Daria. When you do meet her gaze, though, concern is woven into her expression.</p>
<p>“Hey. What’s wrong?” She asks. Your brows furrow and you shake your head.</p>
<p>“Nothing. Allergies.”</p>
<p>She cocks a brow and folds her arms across her chest, popping a hip out and slapping you with her intense gaze; you understand Ford’s apprehension at that moment; Daria Phillips is not someone you want to go up against.</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” she says. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>You’re not sure if it’s her unwavering tone or the seriousness of her expression or if you’re just tired, too tired to keep lying, but her words make you wilt, tears spilling down your cheeks.</p>
<p>“Nothing. It’s not-it’s nothing.”</p>
<p>Daria’s brows knit together and she wraps an arm around your shoulder, leading you to the front of the store.</p>
<p>“Come on,” she says.  </p>
<p>“But Ford’s sweater-”</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine without a gift from me,” she says, pushing through the front door and pulling you out into the cold, “might take that ego of his down a notch.” She leads you to the car, and you climb in reluctantly, waiting until Daria tugs her own door shut and shifts in her seat to face you.</p>
<p>“Spill it,” she says, her words leaving no room for argument.</p>
<p>You tip your head back against the headrest and let out a shaky breath, folding your arms across your torso and holding yourself tight.</p>
<p>“It’s not real,” you say. Daria’s brows furrow in your peripheral vision, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything but wait for you to continue.</p>
<p>The words are sharp and sticky on your tongue, but you manage to spit them out.</p>
<p>“Me and Steve. It’s not real.”</p>
<p>“What the hell are you talking about?”</p>
<p>You lift your gaze to meet hers, letting out another sigh.</p>
<p>“We’re not together. We’re just roommates. Steve needed someone to come home with him, someone to help him survive his family…” You wince, but Daria waves a hand in understanding; she’s been around longer than you, and is far more familiar with the shitshow that is the Harrington family. “So we made a deal. I play the doting girlfriend for two weeks, and he does my chores for the next month.”</p>
<p>Daria is quiet for a long moment before she sinks back in her seat and says, “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” you say. “Fuck.”</p>
<p>She’s quiet again, quiet for so long you think she’s done with her interrogation, but she turns suddenly, holding your gaze in a vice grip.</p>
<p>“You love him,” she says. “Don’t you?”</p>
<p>You press your lips together, the words slashing right through your chest and unveiling what you’ve known for a long time; what your heart and body have known far longer than your mind.</p>
<p>“Yes,” you say. “Yeah. I do.”</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>.” Daria rakes a hand through her hair. “How does he feel?”</p>
<p>“He still thinks of me as his roommate. The annoying girl who bitches at him all the time for not doing his chores. Who broke his nose with a hairbrush. That’s all I am. That’s all I’ll ever be.”</p>
<p>Daria purses her lips, seeming to work the words over in her mind before letting them out.</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>You laugh mirthlessly, shaking your head, a humorless smirk tugging on your lips. You gesture around you, shrugging.</p>
<p>“Because if I was wrong, I wouldn’t be here as a lie. And I am.”</p>
<p>“You’re grossly overestimating Steve Harrington’s confidence,” she says. “You don’t know <em>shit</em>. You <em>don’t know</em> how he feels.”</p>
<p>“If he wanted it to be real, wouldn’t it be? We’ve been on this trip for days, but we’ve been friends for months. If he wanted it, we’d have it.”</p>
<p>“That’s not a given.”</p>
<p>“In this case, it is.”</p>
<p>Daria laughs, shaking her head.</p>
<p>“God,” she says. “You’re just as stubborn as he is.” She shifts all the way in her seat, knee on the middle compartment, and she leans forward to see you better in the dark. “I’ve watched him, Y/N. I see the way he looks at you. The way he talked about you tonight. That’s not how you talk about your friend or your roommate.”</p>
<p>Her words only worsen the ache in your chest, opening the gates to the hope you’ve been shoving away for days. Hope is a dangerous thing, a deadly thing, one that will burn you to ashes if you’re not careful. How are you supposed to risk it, when the chances of burning are so high? When pain is more likely than peace?</p>
<p>“And if I’m wrong? If I tell him how I feel, and he doesn’t feel the same? What do we do then? It doesn’t go back to normal after that. It doesn’t matter what people say, it changes things. It changes everything. And I don’t….” You take a breath, your tears raking rivers down your cheek and slipping off your chin to create a wet spot on your jeans. “I don’t think I can risk that.”</p>
<p>“Love <em>is</em> a risk,” Daria says, her expression turning serious. “But it’s one we have to take. Because when it works out, and sometimes, it <em>does</em> work out, the rewards are a thousand times better than the risk.”</p>
<p>You’re so sure it won’t work out, so convinced Steve Harrington could never find a place in his heart to fit you into, it doesn’t seem like a possibility. It seems like running face-first into a blaze without any protection.</p>
<p>Though you suppose, maybe that’s what love is. Running blindly and hoping there is relief on the other side of the fire. Trusting even after you’ve been scalded.</p>
<p>In theory, it isn’t so hard. In actuality, it’s a taller mountain than Everest, one littered with bodies and boasting of few survivors.</p>
<p>“No one can force you to tell him. But I think you should.” Daria pauses, lips pulling thin. “I know Ford comes across as this huge asshole, but he isn’t. We were friends in college, and when I realized how I felt about him…I felt like I was going to explode. I got to a point where I didn’t even care if he felt the same, I just needed him to know. I needed to get it out.”</p>
<p>“But he <em>was</em> interested.”</p>
<p>“<em>But</em> <em>I</em> didn’t know that. You can’t know until you ask.”</p>
<p>“Easier said than done.”</p>
<p>She laughs, and nods. “Oh, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, to stand in front of him and tell him I loved him. I legitimately almost pissed my pants. I was so sure he didn’t want me back. And then he did. And here we are.” She gestures to the car, to the quieting street around you. “Stuck in Hawkins, Indiana with his shitty family for the holidays. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Not even the beginning, not even when it hurt. You know?”</p>
<p>You understand the sentiment, but Daria is one of the bravest people you’ve ever met, unaffected by others and completely secure in herself. It’s odd to think about, Daria nervous, standing fearfully in front of Ford of all people.</p>
<p>“How do I even tell him? I don’t think I could get the words out if I wanted to.”</p>
<p>“So don’t say it,” she says. “There are more ways to talk than just with your voice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 25</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>12:35 AM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve fell asleep an hour or so after you returned from shopping with Daria, and the moment his eyes shut you climb out of bed and grab your computer, slipping out into the hallway and heading to the office, unused despite Steve’s father’s claim on it.</p>
<p>You got Steve a gift a few days back, something normal and silly, but the real present is being made now and bears far more weight. It was Daria’s idea to make your confession out of something other than your own words, but the mixtape was your idea.</p>
<p>Your childhood days of burning songs onto CD’s comes in handy. You could surely have just made a Spotify playlist, sent him a link, let him listen to it that way, but there’s something more real about the CD, about hand-selecting the songs and moving them onto the disc and designating their order.</p>
<p>It takes over an hour to pick the songs and burn them, the clock pushing past 2 by the time you’ve gotten the last song onto the disc. When it’s done, you tuck it into a CD case, scrawling down the songs on a piece of paper and slipping it into the front cover.</p>
<p>Next is for the note, to be folded and tucked behind the cover. It’s like a last-ditch effort, an added bonus if Steve doesn’t decipher the meaning from the music itself.</p>
<p>You say everything you’ve wanted to say to Steve Harrington since the day you realized you loved him, filling the paper with ink.</p>
<p>Once you’re finished, you tuck the note into the disc’s case and tape it up, wrapping it in wrapping paper and returning to Steve’s room, tucking the gift into your bag. It isn’t something to be opened surrounded by his family, so you decide to save it for private.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>ALL IN DOUBT - A MIXTAPE</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Rome - Dermot Kennedy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The Hills - The Weeknd</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This City - Sam Fischer</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Make You Mine - PUBLIC</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Certain Things - James Arthur</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Waste My Time - Grace Vanderwaal</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Beige - Yoke Lore</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Someone To You - BANNERS</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Us - James Bay</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Beautiful Crime - Tamer</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Deep End - Birdy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>See Me - Talos</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The Most - Miley Cyrus</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I Believe In Us - LÉON</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Let’s Hurt Tonight - Onerepublic</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fool - Cavetown</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Crashing Into You - Nancy Joy</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Trouble I’m In - Twinbed</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lost - Dermot Kennedy</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: Robin &amp; Y/N</b>
</p>
<p><b>2:01 AM - You:</b> <em>i fucked up</em></p>
<p>
  <b>2:01 AM - You:</b>
  <em> like really fucked up</em>
</p>
<p>The phone rings at 2:06, and you slip out of Steve’s room and down the stairs, quietly stepping out onto the back porch and into the cold night.</p>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“What level fuck up are we talking here?” Robin asks on the other end of the line. You lean back against the brick of Steve’s house, letting out a puff of white air.</p>
<p>“Level 10 fuck up.”</p>
<p>Fuck,” Robin says, and you can practically hear the frown on her lips. “What happened?”</p>
<p>“It’s not like that,” you say. “Nothing happened. Not really.”</p>
<p>Robin lets out a sigh of relief.”Okay. Alright. What are we dealing with?”</p>
<p>You grumble and groan into the phone, and Robin laughs.</p>
<p>“I don’t speak ogre, you know.”</p>
<p>“I’m in love with Steve Harrington,” you say softly.</p>
<p>“What? I couldn’t hear you.”</p>
<p>You take a deep breath, and repeat yourself, louder, “I’m in love with Steve Harrington.”</p>
<p>Robin is silent for a long time, so long you wonder if she hung up. After an eternity, she lets out a sigh, and says, “I fucking called it.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I called it! I knew it! Oh, Nancy won’t believe this.”</p>
<p>“Nancy? What are you-”</p>
<p>“Wheeler called me the other day after you saw them at the diner. She said something was weird with you two, so I did some digging, made a few calls to the kids, and got the confirmation for myself.”</p>
<p>“Confirmation?”</p>
<p>“That you and Steve are engaged in a battle of who can be the most oblivious.”</p>
<p>“Robin, what the hell are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Y/N. You think I’m blind? That I don’t see the way you eye-fuck Steve any time he walks into a room?”</p>
<p>Your mouth gapes. That’s not…possible. You’ve only known about your feelings for a few days. How has Robin known longer? And what else does she know?</p>
<p>“I do not-”</p>
<p>“You absolutely do.”</p>
<p>“You’re <em>not</em> helping.”</p>
<p>She laughs again, and you’re struck with a pang of longing for your best friend. You want to curl up on the couch beside her and cry about stupid boys and stuff yourselves with pizza rolls and candy. You want to be anywhere but here, sitting among a sea of lies.</p>
<p>Her tone shifts, humor giving way to seriousness.</p>
<p>“Are you going to tell him?”</p>
<p>“I made him a mixtape, and wrote a letter, but, god, I don’t even know if I’ll give it to him. I’m too much of a pussy to say it out loud.”</p>
<p>“Pussies are the strongest things in this world, Y/N,” Robin says in all seriousness. “So if you are one, that means you’re a brave, strong, powerful motherfucker. He’s <em>just</em> a boy. He’s just Steve. Dorky, stupid, borderline infuriating Steve.”</p>
<p>“He’s <em>just a boy</em> that can break my heart into pieces.”</p>
<p>“Dude, your heart is going to get broken a thousand times. That’s how this works.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”</p>
<p>“No,” she says. “You just have to pussy up and do it. It’s better to know, right?”</p>
<p>Debatable. Sometimes, knowing is healing, and sometimes, knowing is slamming a door on your fingers and watching them bleed.</p>
<p>But, you have to admit she has a point. If you can just get it over with, get the message across,, you never have to say it again. Steve can reject you, and you can move on, and even if it hurts, even if it stings, even if it bends you, it won’t break you.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” you say, “It’s better to know.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. part 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>DECEMBER 25</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: The Losers of Loft 522</b>
</p>
<p><b>10:02 AM - Steve the Hair:</b> <em>merry Christmas ya filthy animals</em></p>
<p><b>10:06 AM - Steve the Hair:</b> <em>oh come on that was funny</em></p>
<p><b>10:07 AM - Steve the Hair:</b> <em>robin if you’re ignoring me im throwing your Christmas gift in the trash</em></p>
<p>
  <b>Chat: Robin &amp; Y/N</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>10:08 AM - Robin Hood:</b>
  <em> have you given it to him?</em>
</p>
<p><b>10:08 AM - You:</b> <em>not yet. figured in front of the Harrington’s wasn’t the best place to get rejected.</em></p>
<p><b>10:09 AM - Robin Hood:</b> <em>don’t be such a pessimist</em></p>
<p>
  <b>10:09 AM - You: </b>
  <em>not a pessimist, a realist</em>
</p>
<p><b>10:10 AM - Robin Hood:</b> <em>a depressing one</em></p>
<p><b>10:11 AM - You:</b> <em>existence is a curse</em></p>
<p>
  <b>10:12 AM - Robin Hood:</b>
  <em> now you’re starting to sound like Steve</em>
</p>
<p>The Harrington family gathers around the living room on Christmas morning to exchange gifts, scattered across the couches and chairs and curled up on the carpet, Daria designating herself as gift distributor and picking through the crowded room to hand-wrapped boxes to people.</p>
<p>Steve sits beside you on the small armchair, your thighs pressed together and his elbow accidentally knocking you every two seconds. Yesterday, the touch might have made your stomach roll, made nerves flutter to life inside you, but today, your dread weighs heavily on your chest, drawing the ease out of you moment by moment.</p>
<p>“Have you heard from Robin?” Steve asks, leaning to murmur to you. His lips graze your earlobe and you stiffen, heart beating a mile a minute, the phone with texts from Robin burning a hole in your pocket. Robin is knee-deep in supportive best friend mode right now, and her concern is you and your heart, not Steve.</p>
<p>It’s you who is at the risk of crumbling today, not Steve. After a week of playing his crutch, you’re left limping on your own, Robin scrambling from far away to soften the ground.</p>
<p>You shake your head, and say, “She’s probably still racked out. You know her. When was the last time she got up before noon?”</p>
<p>Steve frowns, not one hundred percent convinced, but Daria tosses a small present into both of your laps, tearing his attention away.</p>
<p>“Get with the program, Steve-o,” Daria says, flashing a smile. “We’re opening presents. You can gossip with your girlfriend later.” She gives you a wink before moving back to the tree for more gifts, and to your surprise, drops one into your lap. You give her a questioning look, and her smile widens.</p>
<p>You look down at the small wrapped box, no bigger than your hand, and peel off the wrapping to reveal a tiny jewelry box. You tug off the top and pull out a thin, silver metal bracelet, half an inch thick, simple but beautiful. Carved into the inside, to be hidden by your wrist, are the words <em>without fear, there cannot be courage</em>.</p>
<p>You meet Daria’s gaze again across the living room, where she’s dropped down beside Ford and is watching him open a gift. She meets your eyes and you mouth, <em>thank you</em>, to which she grins and mouths back, <em>be brave</em>.</p>
<p>The gift in Steve’s lap is your unofficial present - the one you originally came with, before you knew you loved Steve Harrington, the one purchased when all you cared about was teasing him - and he tugs the paper off.</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to get me-” he stops when the paper reveals the gift, meeting your gaze and scoffing. He pulls out a bottle of Farrah Fawcett hairspray, straight out of the seventies. He gives you a withering look. “<em>Jesus</em>, are you <em>kidding</em> me?”</p>
<p>You grin triumphantly and reach out to tap the bottle.</p>
<p>“What? Your hair game has been lacking.”</p>
<p>He fakes offense, and you shrug, sitting back against the cushions with a mischievous smile on your lips.</p>
<p>“It has not.”</p>
<p>“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” you say, waggling your brows. Steve rolls his eyes and tucks the hairspray away.</p>
<p>“You’re fired,” he says halfheartedly.</p>
<p>“Too little too late for that, Harrington.”</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 25</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>7:18 PM</b>
</p>
<p>You and Steve spend the afternoon out in the yard in the snow with Daria and Ford, both surprisingly competitive and diving deep into a snowball fight that spans hours and at least two blocks. By the time the four of you stagger back to the door, you’re soaked, shivering, and no longer hate Ford as much as you did.</p>
<p>He changes away from his family, the way Steve does, but to a larger degree. His arrogance gives way to easy smiles, and he simply followed Daria around, clearly smitten and under her spell.</p>
<p>Inside the kitchen, the rest of Steve’s family is chugging away at eggnog, and someone has strung mistletoe up above the door. Ford drags Daria beneath it, waggling his brows and making kissy faces at her until she grabs him by the arm, drags his face down to hers, and kisses the life out of him. When she releases him, she is triumphant and Ford is bewildered.</p>
<p>“Your turn, lovebirds,” says Gary’s fiancée, Helen, a smile on her lips as she watches from a perch atop the counter. Steve looks to you, and though it’s no more intimate than the kiss on the dancefloor of the house party or the pecks you’ve shared in front of his family, the thought of getting too close makes your stomach turn.</p>
<p>You thought this was survivable. You’re starting to believe differently. You’re starting to wonder how many bruises and burns your heart will come out of this with; if it’ll heal, or fester. If it’ll run you ragged or ruin you.</p>
<p>You just have to make it to January 2<sup>nd</sup>. Then, you can go home, return to a life in which you and Steve Harrington are roommates and nothing more.</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t-” You start, but Steve takes your hand and pulls you beneath the mistletoe hanging over the doorway, lips curling up in a smile; it’s a false one, one for show, one you’ve learned to decipher these past few days. The performative smiles are the ones that make you feel sick. It’s like he’s looking straight through you, instead of at you, like you’re a window and not the view itself.</p>
<p>He turns to face you, both your hands in his, and gives a little shrug, as if to say, <em>we’re in this now, yeah?</em></p>
<p>And you want to - that’s the worst part. The moment he leans in, you’ll go limp with wanting and you’ll stretch toward him and dig yourself in deeper. You couldn’t say no even if you wanted to, and you really, <em>really</em> <em>don’t</em> want to.</p>
<p>You force a plastic smile onto your lips and step closer to him, hands moving to his waist. He ducks his head, and you tip your chin up, but the moment his lips graze yours you turn your head, letting his kiss land on your cheek.</p>
<p>Both of your composure is thrown off, but you recover quickly, laughing like it’s all a big tease, and Steve catches on, laughing along, though the unasked question in his eyes is piercing.</p>
<p>For the rest of the night, until you meander up to the bedroom, you refuse to meet his gaze, incapable of giving him an answer.</p>
<p>When you do finally settle in for bed, you remember the wrapped CD, your heart lurching and pulse racing. You move to the end of the bed and reach over into your suitcase, tugging out the small wrapped gift, tossing it onto Steve’s lap.</p>
<p>He frowns, lifting his gaze from his phone, confusion dotting his features.</p>
<p>“What’s-”</p>
<p>“Your real present,” you say, climbing back beneath the covers, sitting up against the headboard, a foot between you and Steve. He hesitates, but pulls the wrapping off and sets it aside, inspecting the CD case.</p>
<p>
  <em>The Great Deceit of Christmas 2020: a mixtape</em>
</p>
<p>Steve looks at you, something indecipherable flickering in his eyes, something like awe or maybe surprise, something you can’t sort out, and then back down at the CD, flipping it over to read the tracklist tucked into the back. Your stomach twists as he inspects the page directly atop your folded letter, but even when he pops open the case, he doesn’t notice the little paper.</p>
<p>When he meets your gaze again, his expression is soft but still unreadable.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says. You force a smile onto your lips, unsure whether it actually passes as that or a grimace.</p>
<p>“No problem,” you say, and turn away, laying down and tugging the covers up, ending the conversation before he can push it any farther.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 26</b>
</p>
<p>The family spends the day in their own rooms, lounging and napping and only exiting the safety of the bedrooms to grab food from the kitchen before retreating.</p>
<p>Steve listens to the CD on an old player in his garage, and tells you he loves it.</p>
<p>He doesn’t find the letter, or maybe he does, and his silence is his version of a rejection.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 27</b>
</p>
<p>You and Steve meet up with Dustin and spend the afternoon sledding down snowy hills, noses and fingers pink, laughing your throats raw.</p>
<p>Six more days in Hawkins. You play your role, and Steve plays his, but something has changed; some of the ease is gone, and you’ve no idea whether it’s your doing or his or a combination of both.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 28</b>
</p>
<p>Ice skating on the frozen lake with Daria and Ford, a needed escape from Steve and his silence.</p>
<p>You’ve never known him to be so quiet.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 29</b>
</p>
<p>Four more days.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 30</b>
</p>
<p>Not a word about the letter. Three days left. You can’t decide whether you’re relieved or angry that he hasn’t brought it up. You can’t decide whether you’re ready for this curtain to fall.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 31</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>9:25 PM</b>
</p>
<p>The Byers family throws a New Year’s party, and all of Steve’s kids - you’ve taken to calling them as such, to Steve’s chagrin - are present, as well as Nancy, Jonathan, and the police chief, Hopper.</p>
<p>The moment you arrive, Nancy drags you into the kitchen and hands you a drink, to your infinite relief. You don’t even have to thank her before she’s smiling and tapping her glass against yours and heading off in search of Jonathan.</p>
<p>You seek out Steve, who’s engaged in some conversation with Dustin, the two speaking with their hands and gesturing passionately. As if noticing your gaze, the boys turn your way, and you give a tiny wave. Steve’s cheeks flush, and he looks away. Your stomach twists, and you take a long drag from your cup, warmth spreading in your gut.</p>
<p>You do your best to avoid him for the duration of the party, settling in on the couch with El and Max and listening to their rambles about the boys and gossiping about Steve and Robin. Even with the distraction, you can’t help but look for him every few minutes, a weird, relieved sensation flooding through you each time you find him.</p>
<p>You’ve never wanted to go home more; you’ve never wanted to stay more.</p>
<p>
  <b>DECEMBER 31</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>11:59 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Everyone gathers in the living room around the TV as the count starts, splitting into couples or darting for champagne - juice for the non-21’s.</p>
<p>59…58…57…</p>
<p>The alcohol you’ve nursed over the past few hours have smoothed out your dread and anxiety, have softened your hard edges and put a genuine smile on your face. Even when Steve takes your hand and pulls you close, you do nothing but smile, winding your arms around his neck.</p>
<p>36…35…34…</p>
<p>It’s the final act; might as well make it memorable. It’s the finale; after this, darkness falls on the story and a new one begins. At this point, you have nothing left to lose; Steve Harrington doesn’t love you back, his silence and distance the last few days indicative enough. But for right now, at this moment, surrounded by the audience, you’re still donning your costumes and still reading your scripts. Right now, the rules are too blurry to be read, and you have too little time left not to take advantage of that.</p>
<p>14…13…12…</p>
<p>The entire room chants, voice shaking the walls.</p>
<p>5…4…3…2…1…</p>
<p>You reach for each other at the same time, a messy kiss, an almost frantic one. There is no one to see it, but if there were, the cracks would be split wide open, the actors behind the characters breaking through their roles. Moving hands and bumping noses and tongues flicking against teeth and your heartbeat, above it all, pounding like a drum.</p>
<p>“Happy new year!”</p>
<p>You pull away first, allowing yourself one moment to look into Steve’s blown eyes and at his pink, soft mouth, and to listen to his huffing breaths, to pretend it’s anything but what it really is: a lie. When the moment ends, your tally falls.</p>
<p>One day left.</p>
<p>
  <b>JAN 1</b>
  <b>
    <sup>ST</sup>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>12:02 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve sleeps the day away, and you spend your last hours in the Harrington home with Daria and Ford. Apart from his family, Ford is surprisingly tolerable, almost likable. Both are in on the secret, though Ford was sworn to secrecy and threatened with his life by Daria to ensure his silence, and it’s nice not to have to pretend, if only for a little while.</p>
<p>Pretending hurts more than it did in the beginning. Now, all you want is to go back to the real world. To mourn the days you’ve spent here and the life - the lie - you fell into without having to wield a persona in front of you.</p>
<p>“It’s his loss, you know,” Ford says from where he lays on the rug on Daria’s other side, the three of you sprawled across their bedroom floor.</p>
<p>“I second that,”  Daria says, nudging you with an elbow.</p>
<p>You smile sadly, gaze locked on the popcorn ceiling above you.</p>
<p>“Even if it was all bullshit, I’ve gotta say, I liked having you around. You didn’t take anybody’s shit. It was refreshing,” Ford says. Daria snorts a laugh.</p>
<p>“The holidays will be a thousand times more boring without you,” says Daria.</p>
<p>“Maybe I’ll come back with Robin,” you say. “You can take me out to eat and buy me an ugly sweater.”</p>
<p>“It’s a deal,” Daria says.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. part 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>JANUARY 2</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>5:22 PM</b>
</p>
<p>The curtain falls the moment you climb into the car, Steve’s trunk stuffed with both your suitcases and a stack of Tupperware filled with food from his mother, who made you promise to keep her son fat and happy. It was not a promise you could make, but you did it anyway, reveling in the last moments of the final act, stringing the ending out as long as you could.</p>
<p>On the drive home, you can’t bring yourself to do anything but look out the windows at anything but the boy in the driver’s seat, and though he might normally notice and badger you for your silence, today, he’s as quiet as you are, thoughts unreadable and expression indecipherable.</p>
<p>Only when you’ve pulled into your apartment complex does Steve finally speak, putting the car in park and tossing you a grateful smile tinged with something you can’t put a finger on.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says. “I know holidays with the Harrington’s aren’t really anyone’s idea of a good time.”</p>
<p>You force a thin smile onto your lips and shake your head, undoing your seatbelt.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t all bad,” you say, which is true enough. “I like Daria.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Daria’s the only one I can stand to be around for longer than five minutes.” A mischievous grin tugs on Steve’s lips. “As for the rest…a flock of assholes.”</p>
<p>You snort, rolling your eyes and popping open the passenger door, hopping out. Steve climbs out and goes around to the back, lugging out the suitcases and nudging yours toward you.</p>
<p>He won’t be opening any more doors for you or carrying anymore bags or doing any of the horrible, wonderful things you’ve grown accustomed to over the last two weeks. Settling back into the old role is harder than you thought it’d be, harder than it should be. Shrugging off the coat of someone who never even existed is like peeling off your own skin.</p>
<p>Robin is standing in the open doorway of the apartment when you reach your floor, lips curling up in a wide grin at the sight of you. When you reach her, she wraps her arms around you, knocking your suitcase aside in favor of the hug. She gives Steve a quick hug before pushing your rolling suitcase into the apartment with a foot, following it inside.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, pushing his own suitcase inside after you and tugging the door shut. Robin chuckles and deposits your suitcase in front of your door on her way down the hall, just before the opening to the living room and kitchen. She stops in the entryway and turns, planting her hands on her hips and looking between you. Steve has his door open, and hoists his bag inside, ducking back into the hallway a beat later and folding his arms across his chest.</p>
<p>“So,” Robin says. “Are we getting drunk to celebrate your survival?” She moves to the small kitchen table, tapping a large bottle of wine and waggling her brows. “It’s not near as fun drinking alone.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t <em>have</em> to drink alone,” Steve says. Robin scoffs.</p>
<p>“Speak for yourself.”</p>
<p>Steve rolls his eyes and maneuvers past you, his aftershave smacking into you as he walks by, soapy and soft and oaky and overwhelmingly <em>Steve</em>. You clench your jaw and remain still as he hops over the top of the couch and plops onto the cushions, tipping his head back to watch Robin as she pops the cork and brings the bottle over to the couch. She settles on the other side, stretching her socked feet out and dropping them onto Steve’s lap. He frowns, but is quickly soothed by the bottle she hands him. He takes a long drag and holds it back out to her.</p>
<p>“Y/N?” She asks, holding the bottle out as an offer. You purse your lips, gaze flicking to Steve beside her on the couch, and shake your head, giving her a half-smile, half-grimace.</p>
<p>“I’m pretty tired. Think I’m just gonna crash,” you say. Steve twists around to look at you, brows furrowed.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on. It’s not even 8 o’clock.”</p>
<p>“I said <em>I’m tired</em>,” you snap, and turn to your door, pushing it open and shoving your suitcase inside. Someone’s feet patter against the floorboard, and Steve leans into your doorway, hands on the frame. His lips twist into a frown, and he inclines his head.</p>
<p>“You okay?” He asks.</p>
<p>“Game’s over, Steve,” you say, moving to the door, and he steps back. “You don’t have to keep playing.”</p>
<p>His frown deepens, and his lips part, a crease forming between his brows. “What are you-”</p>
<p>“Night,” you interrupt, and close the bedroom door in his face.</p>
<p>It’s not nice, nor is it fair, but the slamming of the door is somehow satisfying enough to alleviate any guilt that might pop up.</p>
<p>
  <b>JANUARY 2</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>9:03 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Despite the declaration of exhaustion, you slip out of your room an hour later dressed to go out with the announcement that you’re meeting a few friends at a party. Robin doesn’t protest, nor dos she ask if they can join, to Steve’s confusion. There’s something he’s missing, a piece of the puzzle he must have lost.</p>
<p>“What the hell was that?” Steve asks, the front door swinging shut with your exit. Robin cocks a brow casually, drawing her feet to her chest and leaning back against the arm of the couch.</p>
<p>“What was what?”</p>
<p>Steve drops his chin slightly, brows lifting, and shrugs his shoulders, gesturing to the door.</p>
<p>“<em>That</em>,” he says. “She left without more than two words to us, to go to a party. You’re telling me that’s not weird?”</p>
<p>Robin shrugs.</p>
<p>“It was definitely more than two words,” she says. “At least four.”</p>
<p>“Robin.”</p>
<p>Robin pushes herself up, shrugging again. “What do you care?”</p>
<p>Steve rears back, lips parting.</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t I care?”</p>
<p>Robin takes a swig from the half empty wine bottle and sets it on the coffee table. She meets his gaze, something akin to anger simmering in her eyes, and says, “You can’t reject someone and be upset when they move on, Steve.”</p>
<p>“What the hell are you talking about?” Steve asks. Robin lets out a dramatic sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes for a beat before meeting Steve’s gaze.</p>
<p>“I knew you were an idiot, but I didn’t think you were this daft.”</p>
<p>Steve shakes his head, confusion and something like fear swirling and twisting in his gut, hot and sharp.</p>
<p>“Robin, I have no <em>fucking clue</em> what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>“The <em>letter</em>, dingus,” Robin exclaims.</p>
<p>“The letter?”</p>
<p>“When someone makes you a mixtape and pours their heart out in a letter, and you just…<em>pretend</em> nothing happened, it makes it <em>pretty</em> clear-”</p>
<p>“<em>Robin</em>.”</p>
<p>Robin stops, irritation flickering in her eyes.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“<em>What letter?</em>”</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Steve,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Let me just say, from the bottom of my heart…my bad.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sorry. Not funny. There’s not really a good way to start these kinds of things, but I figured you’d appreciate a good reference. Figured it’d break the ice a little bit before I say what I have to.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>If I were brave enough, I’d say it to your face. If we were in middle school, I’d hand you a sheet of paper with two boxes: check yes or no, and return. But I’m not brave, and we aren’t kids anymore.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It’s a good thing we didn’t take bets on this thing. If you’d told me two weeks ago I’d come out of the break on this side of the fence, I’d have laughed in your face. I’d have bet on the person I was two weeks ago. And I would have bet wrong.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>There’s always that joke in the movies, when the guy tells the girl she better not fall in love with him, and she laughs, and assures him she won’t. She always does, though. She always does.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Considering the shitty hallmark movies we grew up on, I should have seen this coming. I guess those movies feel a little more plausible, now (but just a little).</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I came to college looking for something, and I didn’t realize I’d found it until you and Robin. You’re my people. And I know what happens when people poke that bubble or try and stick feelings inside of it; I know what the risk is. But honestly, if I don’t tell you how I feel, I’m going to go out of my fucking mind. So, here it is. Cards on the table, for you to pick up or swipe away.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I love you. Which kind of sucks. Things were much easier when I didn’t. But I do.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sorry if that complicates things.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Robin stands in the doorway of Steve’s bedroom as he unfolds and reads the letter. When he’s done, he looks up at her with wide eyed, and she frowns.</p>
<p>“You really hadn’t read it?”</p>
<p>Steve shakes his head.</p>
<p>“No,” he says. He pushes to his feet and rakes a hand through his hair. “If I had, I would have-I’d-”</p>
<p>“What would you have done?” Robin asks, voice low, genuine. Steve pauses.</p>
<p>He thinks of your amused smirk when he sings off-key in the car - your attempt to look irritated that he saw right through - and the way you stood up to his family, the fact that you know him - really, truly know him, have practically shaken hands with the skeletons in his closet. You, laughing as you sled down the snowy hill, gripping his back and tucking your face against his coat. You, murmuring softly in your sleep, and you, burning songs onto a CD and handing him your heart.</p>
<p>A stolen moment, dragged too deep for him to find and tinged with alcohol, surfaces, blurry and fractured but clear enough to decipher. Him, pressed against the wall at some house party, and you, pushing up against him and kissing him. He remembers the heat and the racing of his heart and the twisting in his gut, like his body knew something his mind hasn’t figured out.</p>
<p>Sometimes, it takes time to catch up. In this case, Steve might be too late.</p>
<p>Steve curses.</p>
<p>Robin makes a questioning noise, and Steve meets her gaze.</p>
<p>“I need to get to that party,” he says. “Now.”</p>
<p>“Easier said than done,” Robin says. “Seeing as we don’t know whose party it is, or where it is.”</p>
<p>“Jesus, Robin-”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay! Someone can’t take a joke.” At Steve’s withering glare, Robin tugs her phone out of her pocket. “Let me introduce you to the magic of location sharing.” She pauses, messing around on the phone for a moment before looking at Steve. “That frat on Cranberry. You know the one with that massive tree that they never trim?”</p>
<p>“You and that goddamn tree,” Steve says, already shrugging on a jacket and stuffing his shoes on.</p>
<p>“It’s not that hard to get some clippers!” Robin says, following him out of his bedroom and down the hall, tucking his key into his pocket and patting his back, stopping when they reach the door.</p>
<p>Steve tugs open the door and turns to face Robin, fear unfurling in his chest.</p>
<p>You’ve spent days believing he’s just some douchebag who read the letter and ignored it. And Steve is the idiot who didn’t see it. He doesn’t deserve a chance, but he wants one.</p>
<p>“Don’t fuck this up,” Robin says. Steve gives her a thin lipped smile and a mock salute before ducking out into the hall. “And maybe don’t dump any alcohol on her!”</p>
<p>“Not funny!” Steve calls over his shoulder, and heads down the hall to the stairwell.</p>
<p>
  <b>JANUARY 2</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>10:59 PM</b>
</p>
<p>Steve runs to the fraternity house, too deep into the wine bottle to drive or for Robin to let him use her skateboard - you crash it drunk one time, and you’re forsaken forever. It’s only a mile, easily done when one isn’t tipsy or desperate, of which Steve is both.</p>
<p>He can’t shake the fear that he’s too late, that somehow, he’s too late.</p>
<p>When he reaches the house, he pushes through the front door into a throng of bodies, the heat smacking him like a wave. The living room and entryway are teeming with people, and smell distinctly of sweat and vodka. A heavy bass rumbles the floorboards, the vibration thumping in his chest.</p>
<p>He scans the heads in search of yours, moving onto the next room when he doesn’t see you, and on, and on, until he’s on the second floor. There are a group of people smoking in one of the bedrooms, and the balcony door is cracked, though no noise comes from outside.</p>
<p>Steve maneuvers through the relaxed partygoers and slips out onto the balcony, tugging the door shut, intending to catch his breath in the cold before going back in, only to find you leaning against the railing, a red solo cup in one of your hands. You glance toward the door when it shuts, but don’t react to his arrival, gaze skating lazily back to it’s prior point in the distance off the dark balcony.</p>
<p>Swallowing the lump in his throat, Steve crosses the small balcony to stand beside you, leaning his forearms against the railing.</p>
<p>“Stalker,” you say, and taking a sip from your cup. If Steve weren’t so goddamn nervous, he might laugh.</p>
<p>“Robin did the stalking, actually,” he says. You hum affirmatively.</p>
<p>“Didn’t realize you were coming to this,” you say. After a moment, you add, “Especially since <em>I</em> didn’t invite you. You have some FIJI buddies I don’t know about?” You turn your head to look at him, cocking a brow; not drunk, but tipsy, inhibitions loosened enough to say what you’re really thinking and not care what happens after.</p>
<p>“I read the letter,” he says.</p>
<p>“No shit.”</p>
<p>“No,” he says. “I <em>mean</em>, I just read it. I didn’t even know it was there. Robin told me.”</p>
<p>You shift to face him, still leaning against the balcony, eyes guarded.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know until Robin yelled at me. I thought I’d done something to piss you off-” at your cocked brow, one side of his lips quirk off. “I mean something different. I had no idea that you-” he stops. “I didn’t know.”</p>
<p>“And now that you do?”</p>
<p>“You know why I didn’t make a bet?”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>His lips pull up in a sly grin, and he says, “Cause I already knew I was a goner.”</p>
<p>You swat his arm, but can’t keep the smile off your lips.</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” you say. He grins sheepishly, and shrugs a shoulder. “God, did that shit ever work on anyone?”</p>
<p>“Worked on you, didn’t it?” He asks, quirking a brow.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, it was strictly the bedhead for me. And you kicking me in the shins at night. That was super attractive.”</p>
<p>Steve smiles, and steps toward you.</p>
<p>“But?”</p>
<p>“But what?”</p>
<p>He cocks his brows, and you mirror the expression.</p>
<p>“I think it’s your turn,” you say.</p>
<p>Steve’s smile widens. “Wait, one thing.” Your brows furrow, and Steve reaches into his pocket, pulling out a little scrap of paper, handing it to you. “I figured you wanted an answer.”</p>
<p>You take the paper, pressing your lips together to suppress your smile when you read it. You lift your gaze to his, and flip the paper around.</p>
<p>Two boxes: one for yes, one for no. Steve checked the yes, obviously.</p>
<p>Would Robin give him shit for how cliche it is? Absolutely. Would it be worth it for the look on your face? Absolutely.</p>
<p>He settles his hands on your waist and draws you closer, ducking his chin until you’re inches apart. His heart thunders in his chest, but it’s a hopeful song, an anticipatory one; one he wants to hear the end of.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being an idiot, and a dick. I fucked up.”</p>
<p>“Just a bit,” you murmur, palms settling against his chest, fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie.</p>
<p>“I love you,” he says.</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Without a doubt,” he says. He pulls back slightly. “Can I kiss you? For real?”</p>
<p>“I mean, if it’s for real,” you say, lips quirking up in a lopsided grin. Steve’s smile threatens to rip his face apart, but he squashes it by leaning in, brushing his lips against yours. It’s a different kiss than the one at the last party or the pecks in front of his family, softer and quieter and more gentle.</p>
<p>He doesn’t really know what comes next. He doesn’t know if he and you will even be together by next Christmas, if all this will end where he wants it go.</p>
<p>The thing is, none of us get to know. We have no choice but to chug on blindly, hoping we’ve paved ourselves a road safe enough to withstand what might wait ahead. Sometimes, we get it wrong. But sometimes, we don’t. Sometimes we weather the storms and come out on the other side, stepping into the sunlight, safe, survivors.</p>
<p>Steve can’t know for sure, but when it comes to you, he has little doubt that he’s gotten it right.</p>
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